Vynik21

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About Vynik21

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Don't Starve
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  1. Boy, my brain starts to work and gears start turning around four in the morning. I was tempted to write the whole thing tonight, but I felt like after a couple hours, it would have turned into nonsensical rambling (more so than it already is!). Anyway, I hope you guys are still enjoying it. Day 154 – #1 – A Promise Something pulls me towards the door, the location of my death, and I cannot identify its source. It felt so real, the cold, the animals, the pain... Yet, I am fine. I am awake and I am alive. From everything I have seen in this place, I believe it would be naive of me to dismiss everything as a dream or some illusion. However, I do not know what else it could possibly be. A plague of frogs covering the land? Heaven and Hell? Surely, my imagination is simply running wild. Of course, that was what I thought when I first arrived. I promise I will investigate the door further, but for now, I must find food. -Wilson Day 154 - #2 – Early Afternoon Rabbit is delicious. I did not realize how hungry I had become! I feel much more focused, much better about myself. Ah, yes, Wilson! You were the victim of a remarkably visceral and vivid dream, certainly. What else could it be? My time here has been... supernatural, of course, but am I to expect that a portal to another realm could possibly be a naturally occurring phenomenon here? That is, certainly, preposterous. Certainly. -Wilson Day 154 - #3 – Mid Afternoon As I eat and stare at this door, a black lining highlighting it against the trees behind it, the juices from freshly cooked rabbit drip from my mouth. I am savoring every bite. There is just something magical about this place, something wonderfully prehistoric, natural, ferocious. It's bringing out all manner of feelings in me and in my blossoming subconscious! Such a vivid dream, my God. The feeling of freezing to death in this frozen waste, all my work gone, blown away, as ashes in the wind. All of my accomplishments would disappear in an instant. It is absolutely preposterous that I could have even entertained such a ridiculous thought! I am certain to read these entries in the future and laugh. It will be a source of great amusement as I am sitting around my campfire, preparing for another day's fortification. -Wilson Day 154 - #4 – Late Afternoon All of my work would be gone in an instant. Death is the final reckoning and what would I have to show for it? When I shuffle off this mortal coil, would my inventions be recognized? Would I be noted for being an absolutely brilliant, ahead of his time, magnificent person of science? No. My colleagues, no doubt volleying for affection from some stupid old man with more money than sense, would use my research, my ideas, and profit. That is what would happen. My sacrifices would not be recorded, would they? My journal would not be found and the scientific discovery of a century, a millennium? Of all time? It would fall to the wayside, a ghost of knowledge that no one but myself would be able to see. My death. A brief confluence of mistakes and suddenly my world is done, over, finished, and I am gone. Is that what you would like me to understand, door? You speak to me, an obelisk, and you speak to me about death?! You do not deserve to be in my PRESENCE! I am beyond death. My time on this island... death is no longer a concern, do you understand? I have harnessed death, ridden him into submission, and used him to trample my foes. I am Wilson. Do not test me. -Wilson Day 154 - #5 – Dusk I have smashed you with rocks, stabbed with my spear until the tip split against your unbreakable wood, and turned to fire. All failed. You're very clearly here to stay. Who am I fighting against? Who are you, door? What are you? Why did you show me this? Why did you show me my own death? Why did you make me experience it, in such great detail, as I froze, as my lungs filled with bitter cold? Why did you force me to witness this?! To FEEL this? To fear this? You exist dangerously. You have shown me my own death and I am coming to grips with that. I am afraid, yes, but soon I will not be. When I am no longer afraid, then you shall be. I am speaking to you, door, or to whomever it may concern. -Wilson Day 154 - #6 – Night Fine. You're right. I cannot fight it, can I? I believe a little bird always told me that I could never fight the inevitable. It is inevitable, isn't it? Death? Whether it be from this or from... something else. Whether I freeze to death in a surreal wasteland or die of old age, it all comes down to it, does it not? I propose a deal and the terms are quite simple. You do not lead me back. You do not let me return to the location of my death and I will... I will... I don't KNOW! What do you want from me? I will do whatever you want, just do not lead me there again. Death takes a toll on the mind, door. I am speaking to you through my journal. No, I am speaking. That is an important distinction. I am speaking. And writing? It's almost involuntary now. As I speak, I write and as I write, I speak the words that appear. Do you want my journal? You promise to deliver me from death, to never make me experience that pain again, and I shall give you my journal. It is the only thing I have worth anything. My journal and my memories. That is it. I swear. Please? -Wilson Day 154 - #7 – Deep Night I don't know. Maybe... maybe if I finish it now, if I give up, you will spare me. No, you won't, but you cannot make me die. I can choose how I would like to die. I can drive this spear through my own throat and that is it! Over and done with, your already blood-soaked ground sprinkled with another drop or two of essence, and I never have to experience that helplessness again. I am a hobby physician, after all, and I'm certain I could kill myself easily and effectively. There are many ways for a man to end his own life. Many, many, many, many, many ways. I could slit my throat, poison myself, hang myself from one of these ubiquitous evergreen monstrosities... There are so many possibilities, door. Do you hear me, Maxwell? Would that make you happy or would you slam your inky black fists into your throne of fire? Would you be furious that I stole this opportunity from you? I can still die. -Wilson Day 155 - #1 – Breaking Morning I do not know how the entries appeared but... There are entries that fill spots in my memory. Blackness. That's all there is, still, unfortunately. But words in my journal that I can swear I did not write have given me guidance... somewhat. You said it so succinctly! You are the most beautiful and will always be the most beautiful! I am proud of you. I am so proud of you. I cannot say that I understand how this land works, but if there is an opportunity of communication, then I welcome it with open arms! Willow, I am so sorry. I should never have left you like that but I was so ashamed. Harboring... carnal feelings for someone like you, someone so young and... I am sorry. I thought, perhaps, distance would be the best medicine for both of us. You would sprout, Willow, and you would find someone wonderful to spend your time with instead of wasting away with a socially inept man of science. I am brilliant. You were brilliant. Perhaps you still are? I am not perfect, I know. “Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”* This door showed me something I was not ready to see. I do not believe anyone is ready to experience their own death. You are right. It is an inevitability. Death is stalking us all, even one as young as yourself, as young as Abigail. I am no exception. I don't understand the rules of this door. I don't understand your rules, Maxwell. I will continue. I will try the door again, okay? Okay. Okay. -Wilson A Cold Reception - #? Do not be afraid. I am sorry, Wilson. I wish I could be more help but I can only do so much from where I am. Thank you. I am glad you can hear me. I was worried! Wendy was worried too. Please, look for us. All of us. We're here, okay? Please look for us. You have gotten so far. Just remember that Maxwell is afraid of you, okay? He is not your God. He is a Devil playing God in a place that he does not own. I'm sorry, you should find that out on your own. Be careful and do not be afraid, Wilson. -Willow A Cold Reception - #1 I can feel the familiar rain dripping down, splashing on my journal. I can see the frogs in the distance, carefully guarding their small patches of land, slowly moving and pushing me onwards. I can see where I died. I remember nothing of my inventions, of my technological adaptations, but I am not discouraged. I can do this. I see one more thing, and it will be the last thing I shall record in my journal for today. I see Maxwell in the distance, a winter coat wrapped around his cadaverous form, watching me closely. If I squint, I could swear that he's smiling. -Wilson
  2. Finals, tests, projects, and work have come to a head and have tapered off for the time being. I apologize for not updating nearly as often as I would like! I am, honestly, shocked that this story has managed to maintain enough interest that I am not buried on page 10 of the forums! I know many of you have been supporting me and feeding kind words to me even though there has been a particular dearth of updates. A quick little explanation of why I haven't been updating it as much: Finals, university, bleh. I've also been fashioning my other, non-fan fictiony work into a more professional presentation. I was thinking about putting a small collection of my other short stories or a book I wrote a year or so ago up on Amazon's Kindle service for giggles for a couple of bucks to see what would happen. Also, GBmskm, I haven't actually checked out FanFiction.net or anything like that. This is my first experiment at fan fiction of any kind, and for some reason, the Don't Starve universe really lent itself to creativity in my mind. Anyway, I don't want to keep bugging you guys with non-story related things, but I just wanted to say: Thank you for everyone who has been reading, checking for updates, posting, and constantly keeping this in my mind so I don't forget about it in the din of uninteresting things. Now, again, with time on my side, I'm (hopefully) going to start the regular updates again. Pushing out a smaller update to get my brain back on track with the story and I guarantee tomorrow will bring another update! Day ? - #2 – Frogs The air is biting cold, but there is no snow to be seen. Not yet, at least. As though I have done it a hundred times, I have gathered necessary supplies to see me through the night. I have berries at the very least. I am writing underneath a particularly large tree, a single tree's canopy that covers me completely. The odd rain drop slips through, splashing on my journal, but it's fine. It's fine. “Let my people go, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will plague your whole country with frogs.” I was never a religious person, no. I find the whole idea behind religion fascinating and the analogies and metaphors hold a special place in my heart. I have never, however, been one that studies the Bible for any length of time or with any overwhelming purpose or intent. As the rain splashes on my journal, I see them fall, every now and then, frogs from the sky. They croak as they scream towards the ground, only to land safely. I approached one and was assaulted most viciously. It was my mistake, of course, as I disregarded safety for curiosity, a mistake I do not plan on making again. These frogs are extraordinary. They are violent and enormous, creatures of nightmares instead of swamps. Creatures of dreams instead of nature begin to swarm this land, familiar in its biology, but altogether different from the terrain of before. I feel different, awful. I feel like I have stepped into someone's home and I am not wanted. To be fair to myself and my... host, I believe I overstayed my welcome a long time ago. -Wilson Entry #3 – New Lands I am struggling to understand how to notate my journal entries. I had a clear time line, a clear... understanding of the linearity of time. Now, I don't know where I am. There is a miasma, a fog, that clouds my head... I cannot focus. Interestingly enough, despite me finding it more difficult to maintain clarity here, I have found a staff that speaks to me as I wander. This land seems to push me forward, making it difficult to maintain a camp of any sort. As I stay still, the frogs fall, the miscreant creatures advance on my position and force me to move. It is a terrifying experience, magnified by my lack of a home. The cold bites harder today. I feel as though I need to advance quickly, lest I freeze to death here. I do not know where I am. Until I do, however, I shall only measure journal entries by number, and not by day. I may include time, for future reference, if it is of particular significance. The frogs approach. I must pack up my things and move onwards. The staff speaks to me and beckons me further. I can swear I see something abnormal in the distance. -Wilson Entry #4 – Developments I recognize these pieces. Quickly, I have amassed a small fortune in trinkets with no readily apparent use. I have a … crank, it appears, as well as a curious box with a lever, or other rod, attached to one side. My temporary camp, truly ephemeral, keeps me warm for now. I remember finding something like this crank in my old world. In my old world? In my waking world? In my waking world. Awake. -Wilson Entry #5 – Night Falls This island is voracious, seeking to consume me and spit me out, my soul retained for some sort of dark sustenance. I will not give in to the island, I tell myself. I write, as proof of fortitude, as a promise, that I will not give into the island. I feel an anxiety that I have not felt in a long time. I feel the fear of impending death, of scrounging for resources, and it is... thrilling. It is thrilling and it is strange. It is horrible. As I seek out twigs, grass, berries, and quickly scrounge the materials for a small fire, I feel as though something is not right. My last memory of waking up on this island is from before, specifically, falling in front of a large, ominous door. The door, a portal perhaps? Stream of consciousness writing is the key, I believe, as it awakens things inside, thoughts previously dismissed. Why am I here? Where am I? Am I in the same world? This world, as little as I can see, is surrounded by water on all sides. The fearsome frogs frolic, no sign or signal of slowing. My mind is beginning to hurt. -Wilson Entry #6 I apologize. Significant time has passed since my last entry. It must have been... two days? No. One day? I cannot keep track of time in my mind. I need to keep track of it in my journal. Blast! This notation style is a failure a mere six entries into experimentation! How can I possibly conquer this land if I'm moving from camp to camp, pushed onward like a frightened bunny rabbit, moving towards a trap? How can I succeed without time? Without planning? Without technology? I have become so dependent on my discoveries, why can I not make them again? Why can I not reinvent the wheel, so to speak, and put together two thoughts in this muddled mess of a mind? I created armors, backpacks, weapons, otherworldly devices, and I cannot remember a single ONE! I am furious! WHY?! -Wilson Entry ?? - A Letter from a Friend Do not be afraid. I speak to you, as your mind reels and darkness beckons, I speak to you. You will read these words when you wake. You may find no solace in these words, black ink splotches speaking a tongue perhaps lost. I speak in the tongue of sanity, perhaps, or insanity? I speak in a tongue that is fit for your understanding, in any case. How you choose to interpret, to understand, is your choice, Wilson. Why do you believe you are here? Ask yourself that question, please, and ponder deeply. Do not mull it over momentarily and then dismiss it like so many harebrained theories. Do not take my words lightly, Wilson. I cannot speak to you directly, as would be my wish, but I believe this should suffice. I have grown a lot. I truly have, Wilson. You would be so proud of me; proud to see me again and know what I have been through. You would be so proud. I speak much older than I am, do I not? I speak as though I possess a semblance of understanding of the natures of comprehension and communication. Although, as I print these words, or rather as I speak them into you, I feel my words lacking. I used to blame you. Partially, anyway, I blamed you for everything. When I stared into the flames, I could think of nothing but you. I could not, for the life of me, understand why. I think I am beginning to understand. I need you to realize something, Wilson. I need you to continue to have your faith in me, even though it is only a memory, and I need you to continue to survive. Do not listen to Maxwell. He is but a Devil playing God in his own domain. He seeks to corrupt you with fear, absolute terror, but you must not let him. Your brain is much too strong for that. Am I correct, Wilson? Your mind is unbreakable. However, even you understand the value of slipping every now and then. You must not give into terror, but you may need to... relax. I speak at length, words generated through years of solitude. At least, I believe them to be years. It feels like an eternity, Wilson. I have been here for so long, surviving for so long, so afraid to die. Make peace, Wilson. Whatever happens, whatever your destiny, do not allow Maxwell to rule your existence with terror. Grit and bare your servitude or revolt, the choice is yours, but in the end, as for us all, it ends the same. Take that inevitability as some comfort, please. I do. “Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”* The Inferno is such a marvelous book. So much fire. -W Entry #7 – Death I have only maintained myself for a short time in this... dream world. I have wondered, since I arrived in this plane, what should happen upon my death. Shall I ascend or rot away? Will I rot at my home or here, in this forsaken land, an unnatural nature eating me up from the inside? My mind drifts to thoughts of death, as the cold is horrible. It is a biting pain, almost unreal, nothing that I have experienced before. It takes all of my strength simply to write in this journal, but my tools are all broken. I have no wood to burn and I am surrounded by carnivorous frogs, spiders, and shadowy horrors that cry for my blood in the night. My adventurous spirit is broken, I am ashamed to say. I wish for nothing but warmth, a shelter, my lab, my experiments, and what few people I can truly call friends. Words escape me as my brain begins to slow... It is so cold. It is so utterly cold. I have never experienced a cold so brutal, so unforgiving. I'm sorry, Willow. I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I should have... restrained myself. It was an unnatural feeling, horrible, perverse, and something that I should have never have given a second thought. I am so afraid to die. I do not want to die. You say to not be afraid, ghost writer, but I know no other feeling at this moment. My fate, as I sit, breathing raggedly, shards of ice coalescing in my lungs, is to die here, in this Hell, surrounded by unfriendly creatures and impenetrable ice. You quote Dante to me, writer. Now, as I fight unconsciousness, in great pain, I can think of another. “Into eternal darkness, into fire and into ice.” Images of Hell show infernos, unquenchable flames. What would I, as a sane man, not give for that heat at this moment? -Wilson Day 152? 153? - Entry #1 – Dreams I am in my clothes. I woke up in front of the door. I am alive. It was a dream, after all, correct? It could be nothing else. This door is... nothing. It is nothing important. I do not know why it exists but it is not important. Goodbye, door. Goodbye. Your bad dreams will haunt me no longer. Goodbye, door. I remain in my familiar terrain, forests scorched by flame and the smell of burning corpses in the air. I am home. Oh god, I am home. -Wilson
  3. Finals, tests, projects, and work have come to a head and have tapered off for the time being. I apologize for not updating nearly as often as I would like! I am, honestly, shocked that this story has managed to maintain enough interest that I am not buried on page 10 of the forums! I know many of you have been supporting me and feeding kind words to me even though there has been a particular dearth of updates. A quick little explanation of why I haven't been updating it as much: Finals, university, bleh. I've also been fashioning my other, non-fan fictiony work into a more professional presentation. I was thinking about putting a small collection of my other short stories or a book I wrote a year or so ago up on Amazon's Kindle service for giggles for a couple of bucks to see what would happen. Also, GBmskm, I haven't actually checked out FanFiction.net or anything like that. This is my first experiment at fan fiction of any kind, and for some reason, the Don't Starve universe really lent itself to creativity in my mind. Anyway, I don't want to keep bugging you guys with non-story related things, but I just wanted to say: Thank you for everyone who has been reading, checking for updates, posting, and constantly keeping this in my mind so I don't forget about it in the din of uninteresting things. Now, again, with time on my side, I'm (hopefully) going to start the regular updates again. Pushing out a smaller update to get my brain back on track with the story and I guarantee tomorrow will bring another update! Day ? - #2 – Frogs The air is biting cold, but there is no snow to be seen. Not yet, at least. As though I have done it a hundred times, I have gathered necessary supplies to see me through the night. I have berries at the very least. I am writing underneath a particularly large tree, a single tree's canopy that covers me completely. The odd rain drop slips through, splashing on my journal, but it's fine. It's fine. “Let my people go, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will plague your whole country with frogs.” I was never a religious person, no. I find the whole idea behind religion fascinating and the analogies and metaphors hold a special place in my heart. I have never, however, been one that studies the Bible for any length of time or with any overwhelming purpose or intent. As the rain splashes on my journal, I see them fall, every now and then, frogs from the sky. They croak as they scream towards the ground, only to land safely. I approached one and was assaulted most viciously. It was my mistake, of course, as I disregarded safety for curiosity, a mistake I do not plan on making again. These frogs are extraordinary. They are violent and enormous, creatures of nightmares instead of swamps. Creatures of dreams instead of nature begin to swarm this land, familiar in its biology, but altogether different from the terrain of before. I feel different, awful. I feel like I have stepped into someone's home and I am not wanted. To be fair to myself and my... host, I believe I overstayed my welcome a long time ago. -Wilson Entry #3 – New Lands I am struggling to understand how to notate my journal entries. I had a clear time line, a clear... understanding of the linearity of time. Now, I don't know where I am. There is a miasma, a fog, that clouds my head... I cannot focus. Interestingly enough, despite me finding it more difficult to maintain clarity here, I have found a staff that speaks to me as I wander. This land seems to push me forward, making it difficult to maintain a camp of any sort. As I stay still, the frogs fall, the miscreant creatures advance on my position and force me to move. It is a terrifying experience, magnified by my lack of a home. The cold bites harder today. I feel as though I need to advance quickly, lest I freeze to death here. I do not know where I am. Until I do, however, I shall only measure journal entries by number, and not by day. I may include time, for future reference, if it is of particular significance. The frogs approach. I must pack up my things and move onwards. The staff speaks to me and beckons me further. I can swear I see something abnormal in the distance. -Wilson Entry #4 – Developments I recognize these pieces. Quickly, I have amassed a small fortune in trinkets with no readily apparent use. I have a … crank, it appears, as well as a curious box with a lever, or other rod, attached to one side. My temporary camp, truly ephemeral, keeps me warm for now. I remember finding something like this crank in my old world. In my old world? In my waking world? In my waking world. Awake. -Wilson Entry #5 – Night Falls This island is voracious, seeking to consume me and spit me out, my soul retained for some sort of dark sustenance. I will not give in to the island, I tell myself. I write, as proof of fortitude, as a promise, that I will not give into the island. I feel an anxiety that I have not felt in a long time. I feel the fear of impending death, of scrounging for resources, and it is... thrilling. It is thrilling and it is strange. It is horrible. As I seek out twigs, grass, berries, and quickly scrounge the materials for a small fire, I feel as though something is not right. My last memory of waking up on this island is from before, specifically, falling in front of a large, ominous door. The door, a portal perhaps? Stream of consciousness writing is the key, I believe, as it awakens things inside, thoughts previously dismissed. Why am I here? Where am I? Am I in the same world? This world, as little as I can see, is surrounded by water on all sides. The fearsome frogs frolic, no sign or signal of slowing. My mind is beginning to hurt. -Wilson Entry #6 I apologize. Significant time has passed since my last entry. It must have been... two days? No. One day? I cannot keep track of time in my mind. I need to keep track of it in my journal. Blast! This notation style is a failure a mere six entries into experimentation! How can I possibly conquer this land if I'm moving from camp to camp, pushed onward like a frightened bunny rabbit, moving towards a trap? How can I succeed without time? Without planning? Without technology? I have become so dependent on my discoveries, why can I not make them again? Why can I not reinvent the wheel, so to speak, and put together two thoughts in this muddled mess of a mind? I created armors, backpacks, weapons, otherworldly devices, and I cannot remember a single ONE! I am furious! WHY?! -Wilson Entry ?? - A Letter from a Friend Do not be afraid. I speak to you, as your mind reels and darkness beckons, I speak to you. You will read these words when you wake. You may find no solace in these words, black ink splotches speaking a tongue perhaps lost. I speak in the tongue of sanity, perhaps, or insanity? I speak in a tongue that is fit for your understanding, in any case. How you choose to interpret, to understand, is your choice, Wilson. Why do you believe you are here? Ask yourself that question, please, and ponder deeply. Do not mull it over momentarily and then dismiss it like so many harebrained theories. Do not take my words lightly, Wilson. I cannot speak to you directly, as would be my wish, but I believe this should suffice. I have grown a lot. I truly have, Wilson. You would be so proud of me; proud to see me again and know what I have been through. You would be so proud. I speak much older than I am, do I not? I speak as though I possess a semblance of understanding of the natures of comprehension and communication. Although, as I print these words, or rather as I speak them into you, I feel my words lacking. I used to blame you. Partially, anyway, I blamed you for everything. When I stared into the flames, I could think of nothing but you. I could not, for the life of me, understand why. I think I am beginning to understand. I need you to realize something, Wilson. I need you to continue to have your faith in me, even though it is only a memory, and I need you to continue to survive. Do not listen to Maxwell. He is but a Devil playing God in his own domain. He seeks to corrupt you with fear, absolute terror, but you must not let him. Your brain is much too strong for that. Am I correct, Wilson? Your mind is unbreakable. However, even you understand the value of slipping every now and then. You must not give into terror, but you may need to... relax. I speak at length, words generated through years of solitude. At least, I believe them to be years. It feels like an eternity, Wilson. I have been here for so long, surviving for so long, so afraid to die. Make peace, Wilson. Whatever happens, whatever your destiny, do not allow Maxwell to rule your existence with terror. Grit and bare your servitude or revolt, the choice is yours, but in the end, as for us all, it ends the same. Take that inevitability as some comfort, please. I do. “Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”* The Inferno is such a marvelous book. So much fire. -W Entry #7 – Death I have only maintained myself for a short time in this... dream world. I have wondered, since I arrived in this plane, what should happen upon my death. Shall I ascend or rot away? Will I rot at my home or here, in this forsaken land, an unnatural nature eating me up from the inside? My mind drifts to thoughts of death, as the cold is horrible. It is a biting pain, almost unreal, nothing that I have experienced before. It takes all of my strength simply to write in this journal, but my tools are all broken. I have no wood to burn and I am surrounded by carnivorous frogs, spiders, and shadowy horrors that cry for my blood in the night. My adventurous spirit is broken, I am ashamed to say. I wish for nothing but warmth, a shelter, my lab, my experiments, and what few people I can truly call friends. Words escape me as my brain begins to slow... It is so cold. It is so utterly cold. I have never experienced a cold so brutal, so unforgiving. I'm sorry, Willow. I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I should have... restrained myself. It was an unnatural feeling, horrible, perverse, and something that I should have never have given a second thought. I am so afraid to die. I do not want to die. You say to not be afraid, ghost writer, but I know no other feeling at this moment. My fate, as I sit, breathing raggedly, shards of ice coalescing in my lungs, is to die here, in this Hell, surrounded by unfriendly creatures and impenetrable ice. You quote Dante to me, writer. Now, as I fight unconsciousness, in great pain, I can think of another. “Into eternal darkness, into fire and into ice.” Images of Hell show infernos, unquenchable flames. What would I, as a sane man, not give for that heat at this moment? -Wilson Day 152? 153? - Entry #1 – Dreams I am in my clothes. I woke up in front of the door. I am alive. It was a dream, after all, correct? It could be nothing else. This door is... nothing. It is nothing important. I do not know why it exists but it is not important. Goodbye, door. Goodbye. Your bad dreams will haunt me no longer. Goodbye, door. I remain in my familiar terrain, forests scorched by flame and the smell of burning corpses in the air. I am home. Oh god, I am home. -Wilson
  4. 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson Day 151 - #3 – Dusk I am going to open the door. Day 151, I think, at Dusk. I am opening the door. -Wilson 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. -Wilson Day ? - #2 – Visitors Continued Wilson, you are STRONG, yes? Excuse me? You are STRONG! You are not weak any more, Wilson. You crushed the Pig Men. -Wilson 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? Wendy? Are you there? Wendy?! I need to stop writing in this journal. I think something may be wrong with me. -Wilson ?? - ?? - ?? 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. -Wilson 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. Strange. -Wilson
  5. 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. Stop it. -Willow Winston 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. You do? 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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? Stop. 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... 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. What? 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. Why? There are some things worse than death, Wilson. Ask Willow. -Wilson 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. -Wilson
  6. 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.
  7. Day 146 - #2 – Regicide Fire. 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. Fire. Prometheus has allowed me a victory this day and it shall not be wasted. -Wilson 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. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. 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. -Wilson ? - ? - 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! Love, Willow” ? - ? - Willow “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! Love, Willow” ? - ? - Willow “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! Love, Willow” ? - ? - Willow “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! -Willow” ? - ? - Willow “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. -Willow”
  8. 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson
  9. I would love to do something like that. I have to figure out how to do it, heh. It would be good to know for this and for my other writing.
  10. 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 144 - #2 Wolfgang, are you there? Wolfgang, I need you. Wolfgang. Wolfgang. Wolfgang. -Wilson 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. -Wilson 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. -Wiiiillllssooooonnnnn 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? -Wilson
  11. I would love to do something like that, but I really don't have the art skills to do it. I would be absolutely thrilled if someone would be up to doing something like that or any art really.
  12. i appreciate all the kind words! I have no intention of letting this thread die. I'm taking a small break to deal with other stuff I have to take care of, but I should have the beginning of part three up by the middle of this week. Sorry for the delay but I'm happy that it is still getting such a warm reception.
  13. I appreciate all the feedback I'm glad you enjoyed act 2, the1SAR. It was considerably longer than the first one which was unintentional. This whole thing is going somewhere in case anyone was worried that it was just going to be rambling with no end. It might be rambling, but it has an end planned for it. And thanks buttercup The first time I played Don't Starve and unlocked more of the characters, I always considered them split from Wilson in some way instead of separate adventurers. I don't know why, but it seemed to just make sense to me. I appreciate you reading the story and look forward to writing more for you guys.
  14. Day 33 – Bloodshed Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in! Kill the pig! Spill his blood! Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in! Kill the pig! Spill his blood! Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in! Kill the pig! Spill his blood! Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in! Kill the pig! Spill his blood! -W Day 33 - #1 – Bloodshed His inky black eyes spill inky black ink down his pinky pink skin and I cannot hold on much longer. The tendrils leap out from his eyes, piercing me, and pulling me under. My mind feels unraveled, no, gone, split, like... wolfgang. Wolfgang is dead? I call on him for strength but he does not return. Wolfgang return! I need you! Wolfgang! I am not strong enough! Please, Wolfgang! I return! I write to call you! I only see you in my writing so I write to call you! Wolfgang! Return! Kill the pig! Spill his blood! Bash him in! Wolfgang! -Wilson Day 33 - #2 Combat has temporarily ceased. The reason for it is horrific, unbelievable, and I can only barely wrap my mind around the consequences. Fueled by anger, or foolishness, Frederic charged after the remaining Pig Man. I saw his black eyes flicker and dance in the sunlight as Frederic moved towards him, as though an unnatural hunger poured from him. Das Tier, as I dubbed him, is a vessel for something much more sinister. Frederic, a wonderful man, Pig Man... has seen it fitting to end this today. Before I could gather my gear, he had taken off, screaming in a frighteningly low bass cello. The vibrato of his voice shook the ground, complimenting the rhythmic drums of war that seemed ignite in my head. Frederic's anger, I thought, might be enough to defeat the beast. I imagined him starting a new tribe as I left. The animosity he feels towards me has grown too great to coexist. I miss him already. It was a brief battle, and the details are unimportant. The importance is the end, and thus, my current situation. The Pig Man stares at me, his familiar tendrils of shadow creeping along the ground towards my book, inching closer and closer as I sit. I fight them off with my mind, but it is only temporary. When I saw Das Tier fall, his hands clutching a hole in his neck, blood pouring out at an alarming rate, I felt a rush of emotion. Frederic's impressive combat abilities served him well. So well that he managed to strike down the executioner of his tribe. The black eyed devil fell beneath Frederic's rampage and I felt happy, uplifted, for the first time in... years. My jubilation was short lived. As Frederic turned around, I saw how his eyes had blackened, as though his very soul had been scorched. The shadows leapt around him and he stared at me, the black eyes returning. There are only two of us now. I am now truly alone. We will wait and see. -Wilson Day 33 - #3 – Dusk I believe that our final confrontation will be at night, which is... unfortunate. I have been too preoccupied with my visions, blinking white eyes in the darkness, to fully invest myself into combat. Frederic waits, his black eyes calling, in the rival pig's camp, as though tethered to it. Perhaps he is waiting for me to be ready? Perhaps his puppet master would like to fight on even terms, as that is the most entertaining fight of all. Perhaps he is waiting for me to go completely insane, the only friend I've known taken by … something. Perhaps he wants me to stare into those eyes for eternity, until Hell throws itself up around me and the darkness smothers me to death. I am waiting for that. I am feeling that. I am... I must fight. The eyes blink in the darkness. Flickering flames fan further from furtive feelings. F... F... F... F... F... Wicked Wanderings and Wants Wither Wildly... W...W...W...W... Wolfgang. Wolfgang. Wolfgang. Help me. -Wilson Day 33 - #4 – Twilight I hear him in my mind. Mozart returns but Wolfgang does not. “You do this on your own. You are STRONG!” He screams in my brain case, my skull rattling with sharp words that pierce my sanity. “I cannot. I need you, Wolfgang. I need strength,” I say in return. I talk to no one but myself, I think. Frederic watches with glimmering eyes, shadows beckoning me to join him. Maybe I will. I feel a call, my hand reaches for my spear made previously. I have donned my armor, a cheap wooden construct, unconsciously. I fight with all of my strength but I feel the pull of him, the tentacles pulling me closer and closer. I am not moving. I am writing. I am writing in my journal. My brain, my mind, my consciousness, my sanity, my hopes, my fears, they all leave me. I am a shell. No. Practice, practice. Practice, practice. Practice, practice. Fight, fight. You are a genius, Wilson. You are the smartest man alive. Fight Wilson. Be strong. -Wilson Day 33 - #5 – Night KILL THE PIG! SMASH HIS BLOOD! SPILL HIM IN! CUT HIS FIRE! F... F... F... Fire. Fire erupts. I am on the corner of my camp, clutching my journal close. I cannot lose it as it is the only lifeline I have. It is what prevents my mind from slipping, being pulled away by his black eyes. They pull me into the darkness but I hear the hissing. The hissing of the dark. I was about to die but then... F..F..F..F..Fire...W..W.. Willow. Her white eyes blink in the distance, a mask of indifference on her face and her bear bouncing on her knee. It bounces to the drums. The snakes of ebony recoiled in horror back into the spheres inside of Frederic's head. A roar of anger. I must fight. Not in the darkness, but in the entire burning forest. It burns around me, collapsing, and Frederic approaches. Hell, I think. Keep your mind, Wilson. Write and keep your mind. -Wilson Day? - Entry? - Time? I am sitting in a circle of fire. The trees burn, animals scream in the night, and I am alone once again. The fire makes for an incredible light with which to record events transpired. I am sitting beside Frederic, whose body has been commissioned, involuntarily, as fuel for the flames. He burns and I smell food. I feel awful. The flames have been burning for a long time. Time compression? I don't know how long I've been sitting here, but it seems like a great deal longer than a few minutes. Eternal flames. Perhaps I am connecting too much towards a great religious significance in my broken head. A forest fire burns for a long time, of course. I know this from the real world. The real world. As though this world is not real.. one can only hope. The battle with Frederic was not a battle in... the strictest sense of the word. He charged, frightening bass uttering nonsensical phrases and motifs, and drove himself into my spear. His eyes flashed again, the darkness flittered away, and his eyes stared back at me. They were only open for a few moments, as long as it took for realization to hit his Pig Man brain. Recognition flashed on his eyes and then nothing. His body now burns in front of me, my lit spear serving as a beacon of... betrayal? Maybe. According to Dante, traitors reside in the deepest levels of the Inferno. As the trees burn, I cannot help but place myself there. The torture is insufficient, however. I feel as though I no longer have command of myself, of my mind, but that is nothing for a traitor. I must pause. I will write one more entry, I believe, once my mind has cleared. -Wilson ??????? I wept for, oh, what must have been hours. The flames have not died down and Frederic's body continues to burn. The white eyes that blinked in the darkness are no longer able to found, perhaps because I cannot see past the blinding flames. I stopped crying because I began to worry that the tears would ruin my account of these events. I believe, for future reference, that this is an important moment in my life, as well as my scientific research. I am certain that I will not find a single comparable journal in all of academia when I return home. I will be famous. Nothing seems real to me. I'm writing to keep from going completely mad, as I imagine I will as soon as this entry comes to a close. I have tried to cope with recent events but I have found that, even I, cannot. It is not as much of a burden as one may think. In fact, I believe I may need to give in. Submit to the madness, as they say. As who says? As I say. It's beginning already. I apologize to myself because I do not plan on writing any more entries for a... while. Perhaps in a few days I will continue, perhaps dozens, or perhaps hundreds, I cannot say for sure. I need to submit. It feels like the right thing to do. I cannot tell if it has been hours, or days, or weeks since this forest began to burn, but I will watch until only ash remains. Maybe then I will find the need to open my journal again. If I find that need, I will write. A hundred days in the future, two hundred, a year? Will I die? I don't know. We will speak again, journal, and I will have many important things to say. -Wilson As Act 2 comes to a close, we see Wilson pulled further from his goals and from his home. This is not the final part of the story but it is an intermission! Any feedback, suggestions, comments, etc. that you wish you contribute, I would be more than happy to implement. I will read everything posted, like usual, and I would like to thank everyone who has stuck with my story up to this point. I hope you are still enjoying it as I am definitely still finding joy in writing it. Every comment and view makes me want to write more and more, so for that, thank you. I'm gonna try to get the whole story up on the first post, but I don't think that's going to be possible. If anyone knows what the post word limit is, please let me know. The story right now is sitting at around 13,000, which I'm not sure will fit in the first post.
  15. Sorry for the tiny update yesterday. I wanted to get something done, at least! Here's a longer update - I hope you guys are enjoying where the story is going. I'm taking some liberties with the mechanics of Don't Starve, now. Hopefully, it's not too much! I appreciate all of the feedback, again. Without you guys, I wouldn't have gone this long. Day 30 - #1 – Dreams I awoke from my dream, my brain rattled and shaken, to the sounds of war. My eyes blinked open to panicked squeals and the clashing of wood on wood. Amadeus was locked in a pitched battle with a rival Pig Man, scarred and imposing. I saw him struggling against the other’s brute strength, pushing hard but to no avail. Frederic attempted to intervene, but was struck from behind. I assume they thought that I was already incapacitated, not simply sleeping, as they left me alone. I attempted to grab my spear but I felt nothing next to me. I sprung for my armor, but once again, was met with air. What follows is an account of my waking nightmare: The rival Pig Man’s head spun to me, himself still pushing against Amadeus. His eyes were black, as though pure shadow replaced them. The only thing that compares is the nighttime on this forsaken island. His stare never broke, as though he were judging me, condemning me, with his eyes. Shadowy horns graced the top of his head, a crown bestowed upon him by an entity unknown, but suspected. His eyes narrowed as he pushed harder against Amadeus. His spear, my spear, split in two. I initially, mistakenly, took it as a victory for Amadeus. But as he attempted to squirm away, the shadow Pig Man slipped the tip of the spear into the stomach of Amadeus. He collapsed and bled, as stuck pigs do, baritone squealing accompanying tinny laughter. Shadows leapt about, in the early morning, as though a sudden eclipse had formed. With one last look, the shadow Pig Man dropped the broken spear to the ground, still dripping with the blood of our tribesman. At that moment, he looked so human to me. I cannot explain anything on this island but I feel that I have been discovered, my surreptitious plan revealed, and the target was unhappy. From now on, for ease of documentation, that Pig with the Piercing Gaze will be referred to as Das Tier, as I believe it is a fitting representation of such a monstrosity. I must tend to Amadeus, as Frederic’s medical expertise, limited already, has gone as far as it can go. -Wilson Day 30 - #2 – Death Amadeus is dead. While not surprising, as his wounds were significant, I cannot help but feel a profound sense of loss in his passing. Perhaps I am getting too emotional or attached to these... I hesitate to name them brutes anymore. The more time I have spent with them, the more I realize that they are more human than many of the people I knew before… before I was here. I knew men who would betray one minute and grovel the next, simply for a grant or recognition. I knew men who would decimate populations of animals in search of preservation. Hypocrisy was the order of the day in my community and I never thought twice about it. I was one of those men. I have planned a proper burial for Amadeus. I wish to earmark the end of his life with an experiment. At the funeral, I shall attempt to concentrate on Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 21. I am aware of its effect on me. In fact, I count on it. -Wilson Day 30 - #3 i like it when they run. -wolfgang Day 30 - #4 my new spear is very red with their blood. There are only four piggies left the strongest ones. They are the guardians of their tribe with shadow pig leading them it is scary but I am strong. -wolfgang Day 30 - #5 I weeped today my tears were flowing as my rage ran out. The blood of the pigmen soaks the ground and the sticks hold more skulls than ever we are to be feared There is a problem Frederic does not like my change he wants me to calm down, return to normal he says. We are strong and they are weak but Frederic is not weak but maybe he is I don’t know -wolfgang Day 30 - #6 Frederic Giovanni and Ludwig are all are that left I promised them rage but they said I was too angry. Giovanni is strong but not as strong as shadowpig because he charged his camp today. Giovanni is dead. It is Ludwig, frederic, albert and me wolfgang will avenge Amadeus haha that’s funny -wolfgang Day 32 - #1 It is only Frederic and I now. We stand alone in a field of blood-soaked ground and rotting flesh. I suggested in an earlier entry that diplomacy may have ended this war. I ruined it with violence and rash thinking. Fear generated, I believed, was a viable tactic. If they fear us, I thought, we will win. We must win. Das Tier remains in the other camp, standing vigilant as a protector of the corpses of his fallen comrades. He is alone and we are two, and in normal circumstances, I would believe this to be a imminent victory. My chess match with Maxwell is beginning to dip in his favor. His queen has taken all of my pawns, but we have taken his in return. Only the king and his knight remain, and that is enough. The knight, unfortunately, views the king with hatred in his eyes. When I stand with Frederic, I stand alone. He does not view me as an ally any longer. No, I feel the resentment, the vitriol radiating from his very being when he is near me. He lets me continue to sleep in this camp as he believes I am the only one capable of protecting him against Maxwell’s hound. I do not know of our next move. In fact, I will be lucky if he does not slit my throat in my sleep. -Wilson Day 32 - #2 While Frederic is planning, I am using this time to write speculations and conjecture in my journal. I must clear my mind after living so long as Wolfgang. The habit of journal writing has helped me in ways I would have never imagined a mere month ago. I suppose it is a month. Perhaps a year in this world. I cannot be sure. Only a couple of days ago, I had another dream. It was a short dream, but Maxwell visited me again. His tinny laughter returned and he cloaked me in shrouds of darkness, as though imparting a great wisdom or understanding. When he was finished, he stared at me, black liquid leaking from his obsidian eyes. He smiled, and with a snap of his fingers, I was awake. He was gone. The Pig Men, suddenly, have become much clearer to me. It seems to me that they were not always this way. No, they are as much a victim of Maxwell as me, lost souls drifting to this purgatory to be bound in the bodies of brutes and intellectual simpletons. Their panicked calls and squeaks come from a mind that has the capability of producing so much more. Various images flashed into my mind as Maxwell wrapped me in cold darkness. I saw a construction worker, having committed some heinous act, sentenced to this world. I saw a school teacher, a woman who enjoyed beating her students on a regular basis. She attested to the effectiveness of fear, and I was inclined to agree. However, she, too, was sentenced here. The images flashed, and the list stretched on. The school teacher struck a particular chord with me. It reminded me of my days as a child and being in the care of the wondrous Wickerbottom. That was not her name, of course, but a nickname thought up by the students. She carried a cane made of tightly bound wicker. It had one purpose, motivation, and was utilized several times. She was a smart woman, frighteningly so, as if you did not grasp her material in the time she allotted reasonable, you were to see how painful bound wicker canes could be. I, of course, never had the opportunity of receiving her punishment. I was her favorite student, in fact. I cannot say that my classmates had the same luck. It was their fault, of course, for being such dullards. -Wilson Day 32 - #3 – Dusk It is nearly night time and I look across the stretch of land that separates Frederic and me from Das Tier. He has not moved in hours, as though he cannot come any closer, but he continues to watch. His eyes drip the same black liquid as Maxwell did in my dream, and I feel the same fear when I stare into them. It is not a natural affliction, that much is certain, but the knowledge does not help in fighting the beast. Frederic has angrily demanded more weapons, more armor, or some invention that will help combat him. I told him I am not a specialist in military weaponry, and he looked at me as though I had failed him. Perhaps I do not need you anyway, Frederic. I doubt you will be alive long enough to utilize the tools for which you are so desperate. The dichotomy of my mind still affects my behavior, and in one I feel horrible for thinking of Frederic’s death, but in the other… My mind drifts back to Willow and my dream. Her burning house looked so real, so visceral. I could do nothing but imagine her lying in bed as the orange flames lapped at her body before consuming it completely, as an animal tastes its food before devouring it. I remember, then, the end. As the sun dips below the horizon, and blackness settles in around our camp once more, perhaps for the last time, I cannot shake the feeling of being watched. As I write, I swear I can see familiar white eyes in the distance, piercing through the darkness. Practice, practice runs through my mind. -Wilson