FieldNotes

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About FieldNotes

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  1. Oh? What do you mean by that?
  2. Not really. If I didn't find it entertaining, I wouldn't write about it!
  3. DAYS OF RECOVERY Looking back, it's been over a month since I was tossed into this new land and left to fend for myself. Me and Willow, we got along 'well' - in the sense that she did not eviscerate me in my sleep and I quickly learnt the rules of her camp-site. You see, I believe Willow has been alone...for quite a while. The concept of talking to other people had long slipped from her mind as a pointless task and, watching her behaviour, I am nothing but immensely glad that I chose to write in this journal for a method of retaining my sanity. I don't even know if my step-daughter is still in that hollow shell of a girl, but I know that her consciousness is rubbing shoulders with a demon, a beast of unimaginable cruelty and violence. In the weeks that led to my slow and eventual recovery, I was bed-ridden (Willow deemed it necessary after the second night to bind me using long, thick stands of leather around my wrists and ankles. After the third, I stopped trying to escape, for she threatened to rip the sinewy muscle from my calves so that she was certain I did not move.) and well looked after (Willow did not let me die, at least, but after a particularly vicious argument she did toss me outside of the camp-site and at the edge of the spider-infested woods. I deemed it necessary to loudly express my apologies by that point.) and, at least, had a person to speak to aside from my Journal. I learnt her rules fairly quickly, and adapted appropriately. Her first rule, was to remain within the boundaries of the camp-site. This was a rule that she frequently broke, so I believe that it only applies to 'guests' such as myself. Her second rule was to avoid talking about anything that upsets her; a difficult rule to adhere to, but the punishment merely happened to be a long period of silence in which she wouldn't talk to me until she slept her bad mood away. Sometimes, she 'forgets' to feed me. For some reason I am far less upset about this notion than I would've been in my...flat? Cabin in the woods? My memories are fading, journal. I forget the people in my life, albeit I had very few after the Incident, and the places I have visited. I forget the smells and the sounds first, I have forgotten the tune to my most favourite song and the smell and taste of an English breakfast. It's as if these lands are eating my thoughts, devouring them slowly and hungrily until I become nothing more than...than Willow, over there. Despite the cool hostility that permeated the fire-lit dome that was the camp-site during the impossibly dark nights, I voiced concerns to Willow, talked about my thoughts and feelings with her. She usually had nowhere to run when it came to these 'evening chats' and, secretly, I believe she enjoyed the fact her hostage was kind enough to communicate with her. "The memories go first,"​ she would tell me rhythmically. It was soothing to hear her voice, for she had matured vocal chords that purred and twittered, each word full of emotion and colour, the tone and pitch changing pleasingly with every syllable. Was this the effect of having no external accent to learn upon? Hearing the own sound of your voice for eight, long, years until eventually it transcends human standards and she speaks like the angels in her mind. "And then the common sense. That starts to fade, you become...suicidal, violent." "And I can tell, now, you want to know how I got through that part? I can see it in your eyes, Wilson. You have a knack of narrowing them slightly when something piques your curiosity." Another strange habit of hers - she picks up on body-language incredibly quickly. It seems to interest her, and with no surprise; she has, after all, been on her own for a while. She's mapping out my tiny little reactions in her head, knowing which strings to pull to get me to speak. Knowing what to say to keep me interested, to stop me from wanting to leave. "Well, it's the talking. It's the seeing. Feeling. Smelling. Hearing." she would say, as she crawled over to me and pressed my shoulder with her fingertip. Her hollow, sunken eyes would brighten like two little silver coins, and I would see my step-daughter sitting before me, so tired and scared and sick, getting eaten by a demon named Willow. "But does this mean you've been into contact with other humans?" I would ask ritually, because this conversation has become so incredibly ingrained into our minds that it became an anchor to our lives, something where we did not feel cold and angry and bitter. Where we enjoyed each other's presence. And infuriatingly, she'd smile and remain silent. That was the end of our little chat, usually. Sometimes, during the day, I would try to talk to her. But I never see my step-daughter then, just a beast. She would regard me haughtily because I was the one bound on the bed, but the best time to speak to her would be when she picked me up and lead me around the camp-site eighteen times for my daily exercise. I would be met with brief, snappish responses and barely any progress. One day, I had enough. Digging my heels into the ground, Willow lurched forward as I stopped suddenly. She instantly glanced up at my face, for I was 'as easy to read as the diary I keep', but clearly she had not seen me look this angry for she was thrown off-guard and did not beat me down where I stood. I took the chance, and started shouting. "You keep me bound like an animal!" I roared. "You barely speak to me, disappear on hunting trips and return with a very small amount of food - don't give me that look, Willow, you know I am smart enough to not underestimate your prowess and a handful of Percies are child's play in your mind - and you sit there and play 'lets repeat something over and over again because it cheers me up' with me each and every BLOODY night!" Willow stepped back. I continued. "Well I'm sick of it, 'Willow'. If you don't want me as a step-father then fine. You're a big girl now, look at you." A part of my mind told me to stop now. I leant in maliciously. "All grown up without anyone else to help you, hiding behind a funny little name, changing the colour of your hair, all this fear behind going back...all this cowardice about-" "Stop." "Stop, what did you just say right there?" I can't describe Willow right now. It's impossible to put into words the look on her face, all I know is that she stood there like a barrier whilst some sort of beast erupted from my mouth and tried to beat her down. I wasn't being myself. I snarled, throatily, "What's the matter, Willow? Do I scare you?" as Willow stood there, quite still. The next thing I knew, she advanced, and I tried to step back worriedly for I feared she would actually kill me. All of a sudden her arms were around mine, claws digging into my back, ready to pull out my shoulder-blades and make me feel pai-...she was hugging me. I stood there and took it, my wrists bound, my expression slackened. The beast I felt within me shuddered under Willow's warmth and shied away, hiding itself. "Never say the word 'Cowardice' ever again." she said, and I was dumbfounded by the authority in her voice. I wanted to ask why, but I instinctively knew that was a 'forbidden' question, and kept my mouth shut. Willow must've seen it, so she shook her head at me and "I'll tell you when it makes more sense to" was her reply. When she bound me again, I noticed that she tied the knots incredibly tight for the next few days.
  4. I'd be honoured if you did. (And cut with the crazy talk, there's always someone better than you out there, just be glad that you're better than a large number of people. >:I) If I had something for my literature thread, maybe something to shove on the top of the page, I'd love you forever. Just don't make it too complicated (and don't let it stress you out).
  5. Generic Fanart Thread Title

    HNNNG I was so busy liking Rhodey's art that I've reached my positive like vote for the day. If that wasn't the case, I'd like every single thing in your gallery because -damn-, it's all brilliant. You've really captured the DS style in your own way.
  6. Your art is beautiful and funny and I'm jealous. Take some likes.
  7. ~~~ It's back! \o/ All kinds of lovelies in Chapter Two. How many of you are still reading this, I wonder? I guess we'll find out soon enough!
  8. Thank you! This is going on the backburner for at least another week, though, as I have important things to do. But come 24th July, at least, I'll be working hard on the next post!
  9. DAY OF AMBUSH He sat in a pond and waited to bleed out. His fingers were numb with cold, and his wounds bled rubies into the water. He reached, in vain, for the tattered journal but could not move enough to get there, to open its pages and read, once more, how his life has been in the New Land once more; but there was to be no comfort for him in his dying moments. His blurry vision rose to the sky and he looked upon me, blocking out the sun. I pointed my spear, and I thrust. DAY OF REALISATION For the second time in a row, W had saved my life. I awoke, dimly, to an oddly comfortable bed created out of a bundle of thick, furry hides. My leg had been properly cleaned out, again plastered with something sticky and pieces of hand-made parchment stuck haphazardly around the wound, using the strange substance on it as the glue to bind it together. My vision was fuzzy, and there was a ringing in my ears, and a dull pain in my temple. Gingerly, I touched the bruise that had formed there; something...no, someone...had struck me with the butt of a spear. Looking back, I kind of wish I stayed asleep. W was not, as I believed, a strong warrior. It wasn't some sort of tribesman, a native, which I had previously believed; after all, anything speaks English these days, right? All of those dark-skinned beasts from the plains trying to read and write the monarch's tongue...it wasn't even a man. Sitting by the campfire (admittedly, more of a bonfire compared to my campfires) was a youth, a girl no more of 20 years. Her skin was slightly tanned and weather-worn, calloused hands and bare feet with grimy, long toenails and fingernails, her features gaunt and sunken, ribs protruding from the scrap of fur she wore around her chest. She wore a black loincloth, made distinctly out of hound hide, the fur of it all singed off. Across her practically naked body were elaborate war-paint styled markings, to which I am certain were made out of blood. Her hair was thick, and filthy, and dark as the night, pulled into two ponytails. Journal, I am a decent man. The thought of seeing a lady who was clearly much younger than me show anything more than her knees was enough to make me blush; I quickly turned away to help keep this girl's pride intact. The blaze on the bonfire had blinded her, and luckily she did not notice my movement. Idly, she tapped out a beat on the dirt with her feet, humming some sort of disgusting, satanic ritual-song, most likely. I think of the Lord more often in this place - as a scientist of my kind, it's difficult to obey Him whilst trying to unlock the puzzles he left for man to unwind. There was no puzzle here. I know a sinful demon when I see one. "Are you going to feign unconsciousness for a little while longer, Wilson?" sighed the sinner. Her voice was so heavy with guilt and burdens. Reluctantly, I rolled onto my side so I could stare, coldly, at her face only - I refuse to be tempted by dark desires. A rush of cold trickled down me as I observed the girl more closely, feeling a sudden wave of familiarity with those features - younger features, and younger still, from a time long ago...but surely not. Surely not, she's dead, no. She can't be. "GET UP, Wilson. C'mon, you look at me like a monster. I think you're the monster. Let's find out together, shall we?" snarled the sinner, standing up. She was almost as tall as me, and I screwed my eyes up tight as she leant over me and tugged my hair, so I was forced to sit and stare at those brilliant silver, almost white eyes...surely not, surely not, she's dead. "How...how long have you been here?" I asked, dreading the answer that I hypothesised would be spoken from those scarred lips of hers. My heart was pounding against my rib-cage, affecting my lungs, causing my breaths to be too shallow for my liking. My palms excreted a cold sweat. "Eight years, but you already knew that, didn't you?" came the reply I feared so much. My ears started ringing as my head became heavy with the outburst of thoughts, theories, and above all, the disbelief. It's impossible, she was dead! They both were! But it all made sense..."W", the fact they saved me with the sticky substance - something I think happens to be honey after this sudden realisation - those eyes, those features that I loved so dearly, the disappearance, the fire...I felt like I was going to be sick, but I knew there was nothing in my stomach to expell. Perhaps she saw that I was falling, slipping back into the dark. "But-...Wuh..." I stammered, forcing the name I haven't said for eight long years out of my mouth once more, "But Wendy, I-...I'm your stepfather, why didn't you-" "No!" shrieked Wendy, tossing my head back down violently onto the fur. Whilst it was barely a bump compared to my previous experiences, I felt winded, tears stung my eyes threateningly. "I'm not Wendy, not anymore. Wendy DIED eight years ago! I-...I'm Willow now. There isn't a Wendy. Just Willow." moaned Willow and/or Wendy. Her eyes were opaque with madness, and torment as she dragged her talons down the side of her face, and I felt her angry and guilt and pain pressing on my lungs. If she keeps this up, I thought, I'm going to end up fainting again... "Please, Wendy, let me help you, as a father, I...." I pleaded to my stepdaughter. It was more of a choked gasp. I was fairly certain that my heart was beating so quickly that my ribs were compressing in on it, trying to pin it down. Her gaunt face leaned in so close to mine that I could smell the rotten meat on her breath, I could see every pore and each scar lit up and ruined her features. I could hear her breath snorting out of her nostrils like a horse. "You were Wendy's father. Not mine." "Get some rest, I'm going hunting at dawn...and if you try anything stupid, I'll shove a spear between your eyes." ~~~ \o/ FINALLY. Disclaimer - Wilson's view is as a British scientist in the early 19th century. Racism was, therefore, still very prominent - as was Christianity. Scientists were shunned for defying God's rules, but that didn't mean they'd put themselves on par with what they thought were "inferior" black people. Under no circumstances are Wilson's words intentionally promoting racism, or Christianity, and they his opinion is NOT my own. ENTER: WILLOW.
  10. New day journal will be up soon!
  11. Generic Fanart Thread Title

    Maxwell's totally taking that hair to make a Wilson-inspired monster. OR, to finally reveal the mystery of the anti-gravity Wilson hair...must be scary seeing that huge nose poking out of a bush.
  12. Irony: The letter W is playing a large role in the story right now. (The actual letter, not the person) And now, The Letter W takes a hearty interest. Also, I'd pay for hopelessly addicted Wilson, I'd pay with all of my money...but the plot has no room for 'shrooms.
  13. Something Near Don't Starve Art

    The colours in the second picture are stunning. I'd love to see more!