FieldNotes

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  1. You were completely numb from whatever drug that was in your system. Grogginess shrouded your ability to move for the last ten minutes now, ever since you awoke to a bang, a puff of smoke, and a book. You couldn't even feel the blades of grass ticking your cheeks, or the odd breeze ruffling your hair. The silence had stretched on for an infinite moment, punctuated only with the sound of birdsong, as you examined the only notable landmark since your sudden arrival in...wherever you were. You do not remember getting here, so logically you assumed that someone had slipped something in your food or drink and tossed you, rather unceremoniously, into this dilapidated grassy plain and left an instruction book with your initial sliced into the leather bound cover. It was incredibly battered, and you were certain there was a bloodstain on the top right corner. After a while, though, you eventually regained enough movement to drag the book towards you with a new desperation, flicking open to the very first page, where a thin sheet of what appeared to be some sort of odd, pale leather was picked up by the breeze and landed before you. It was baked rock solid and brittle under the sun, and there was some sort of introductory note written using ink and a quill over the bumpy surface. ~~~ If you have found this book, then words do not describe how sorry I am for your current situation. Inside these pages is a record, a compilation of my Field Notes, on how to survive in this new plane of Hell itself. I have trudged through the coldest winters, sought shelter from unrelenting storms, crouched pathetically in the everlasting darkness to bring to you, heir to my burden, a recount of the day my new life started to the point where it ended. In between these two covers is the story of a life, all of the mistakes, the successes, and the plans. Fears, thoughts, feelings, and fleeting memories compressed into a single tome to which I pass on to the next player in this demented game. If you have found this book, then I am either dead, or worse. All will be made clear should you manage to survive long enough to reach the end, as I have. This may not be the best of introductions but I have very little time to speak and think for myself, as the pointless seconds which I still have are going solely into writing down this very note, on this very piece of leather, to give you a proper greeting - something that I never received myself - and some lessons to live on. If you have found this book, then my name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury, and I do not know where I have ended up. ~~~ Haha okay wow. Hello there, DS arists and writers and music-makers alike! My name is FieldNotes and this thread is devoted to partially DS-related drawings, partially talking to the community instead of lurking, but mainly to putting out a lovely gem that I have been thinking on for a good, hm...6 months now? The premise for Wilson's Journal is fairly simple - I'm going to put the story behind Don't Starve into the perspective of our plucky Gentleman Scientist, and adhere to the canon story as much as possible, but you'll notice how it starts to deviate and I'm going to tie together a bunch of loose ends along the way into one gloriously tangled mess of metaphorical strings. I'm also going to have fun writing, and try to update as much as possible, but I hope people understand that I do get quite busy sometimes. This prevented me from starting this 6 months before, but I noticed that some of the brilliant artists here are also hindered by their own time schedules so I deemed it appropriate to, at the very least, make a start on this little project of mine. Day 1 will be posted shortly, I presume.
  2. Oh? What do you mean by that?
  3. Not really. If I didn't find it entertaining, I wouldn't write about it!
  4. 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.
  5. 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).
  6. 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.
  7. Your art is beautiful and funny and I'm jealous. Take some likes.
  8. ~~~ 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!
  9. 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!
  10. 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.
  11. New day journal will be up soon!
  12. 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.
  13. 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.
  14. Something Near Don't Starve Art

    The colours in the second picture are stunning. I'd love to see more!
  15. Good to see your newest additions. Wilson seems to be adjusting to the world of Don't Starve nicely with a new thirst for blood to boot. It seems he was able to easily transition from freaking out that he killed a few hounds because he took their lives to save his own to going berserk on a bunch of spiders for the thrill of it. Anyway, I look forward to the next addition as usual, with "her" in it too hopefully. Eeeeh, he just stopped giving damns when he realised that there was somebody out there who could've helped him at any point. Clearly, whatever gender it is, they were watching him else they wouldn't have had the honey/parchment ready for him. And "she" is due to enter very, very soon. Real soon. I'm really looking forward to it.
  16. Messin' With Fan Art

    ...This is glorious. Can we keep Wilson naked for the entire thing? *nosebleed*
  17. DAYS OF PROMETHEUS Prometheus gave the gift of knowledge, of fire, to man. His punishment was to be pecked by birds, whilst chained to a rock. I gave the gift of knowledge, of fire, to her. Is this my punishment? Is this land my rock, are these thoughts and trials my birds? Progress has abandoned me. I have been complacent, working in almost a vegetative state, like a mindless being I have confined myself to the coarse grass of what may very well be my new home forever. It has taken me several days to shake myself free of these chains of guilt. I don't even know the time of day anymore, let alone the date, the month; my world is that of light, and darkness. The time of work, and the time of fitful, restless slumber. But slowly I have returned to my senses and, whilst that axe of mine hacked away a part of my soul - my innocence - in that god-forsaken clearing, I must move on. W said I had 28 days. How long ago was that now? In order to try and grasp the sense of time, I flicked back through the pages of my journal. It felt so long ago when I thought that Science was more important than survival, even longer still when I think about that one, fateful day when I woke up and all I did was poke a small berry with my tongue. I was so scared back then and I hid it in disbelief. Shrouded it with scientific logic, and concealed it with common sense. I have less than 28 days. There has to be something I missed, something to pull me out of this repetition, something-...Aha, I have discovered it! "a dilapidated backdrop of grey-green grass, scattered with the odd flower and coniferous tree. In the distance, a dark forest left a corrupted bulge on the horizon, dragging shadows across the plains ominously." Journal, I have nothing left to lose. There's nothing waiting for me back home except memories in picture frames. It's time I took a deep breath, made some preparations, and entered this foreboding forest with the dignity of a scientist and a man, because I can't return to these days of Prometheus-inspired thoughts. I have to remain vigilant, and focused on the task before me, whatever that may be. ~~~ A page appears to be missing here, but from what you can tell, filthy and bloodstained fingers tore it out in frustration. A few words can be visible from the corner, where it was inexpertly torn: besides, I had to focus on th armour will be vital to my succe I glanced down at my bare chest, frowni okay though, because scars tend to be som I couldn't wait any longer, so I cautiously headed into ~~~ DAY OF THE SPIDERS I didn't think this through, again. But for some reason, I'm not as upset about it - The pain is dulled by a new fire burning in my chest, under the claw marks where that hound got me. All I knew was that I had to think fast, that I have to think fast now. W will not save me this time... Spiders, Journal. Not one, but four of them, around as large as myself and they reached up to my waist, their horrific carapaces clicking in the darkness of these woods, a wet hissing noise accompanying their chase across the pine-needles to find me, web me, and devour me. I ran as fast as I could, covered as much distance as I could. My feet pounded the pine needles, my muscles were alight with exhilaration; it was beautiful. I felt like a hound - I was the hound - as I twisted and waved through trees. The sound of my heartbeat was my wardrum. The hilt of my axe caught on a twisted and gnarled root and I span with the momentum, the shoddily crafted wooden armour I wore scratching against the scraps of cloth that were once a waistcoat. my breath came out on ragged, regular snarls at the hissing insects before me. I rubbed one hand across my nose, feeling the filthy and greasy beard I was sporting, whilst the other clutched the axe loosely. I could see them hesitating. Did I not look scared enough? Were they perplexed on why I wasn't running? Or was it, perhaps... "Cowardice?!" I roared, leaping onto the first spider. I brought the axe-hand high into the air so the flint gleamed in the shafts of sunlight whilst the other snatched on wiry hairs, listening in delight as the spider screeched and then silenced with a sickening splatting sound. Laughing, I twisted my head to glare at the other three. One of them launched its filthy belly towards me, trying to crush me between itself and the corpse of its dead kin. My body worked for me, hugging the flint blade close to my chest as the hilt stuck outwards and into the air like a horn, or a spike...the second spider landed on it, legs twitching madly, all eight eyes rolling around in its skull in sheer terror. The wooden armour stopped my chest from being compressed into nothingness, and I pushed with all my might against the gibbering monster, using my legs to kick it off my precious axe. Dark green fluid lubricated the hilt and made it far too slippery to properly wield. So I threw it at the third spider, the blade twirling in the daylight and embedding itself fully into the spider's skull like some kind of demented butterfly, resting on the head of its killer, its predator. My eyes danced across the landscape, trying to figure out where the last spider had gone. The fine, gossamer threads sparkled with each twist of my neck, as the once-ominous darkness opened up to a beautiful daylight. Colours were sharper, sounds were clearer, and I should've focused on the spider rather than how pretty everything became during a fight to the death. Pain rushed up my leg like wildfire. I screamed, the darkness rushing in and lights popping and twisting behind my eyes as I fell to the floor, kicking wildly at whatever bit me. Eventually, I managed to beat the final spider into submission, but I didn't stop kicking until the jaws loosened and I couldn't kick anymore. Then I lay there, grinning at the sky. Who knew that under a bed of pine needles, and a canopy of pine trees, the shafts of sunlight would make a million different shapes and stars to gaze into? It was deliriously peaceful and breathtakingly beautiful. The moment passed slowly as I realised the situation again. Another wound, this time most likely with some form of venom, I needed to staunch these two bullet-sized wounds on my calf if I had any hope in continuing to move. I needed something absorbent, which would take in some of the poisoned blood, something like, something like...a piece of paper... I took the last page and ripped it in half, placing one half over the bite. That was an entire day, that I will never be able to get back again. My memory may fail in this place, and I'll never remember what I did yesterday - I needed the book merely to figure out what I did no more than a week ago. But I couldn't ponder over this loss - I may have no more time to remember these days by if I didn't act quickly. And now I have brought myself in a full circle; after some experimentation, I managed to find what I had hypothesised to be the poison-secreting gland in the hopes of making an anti venom - if only I had a horse, or something similar - when some of the liquid dripped onto my cut. I expected searing pain, but instead a large amount of darkened blood and pus spouted from the wound, cleaning it. So, I doused the two puncture wounds with these secretion and groaned in agony as all manner of fluids escaped the cuts. My vision grew dim and blurry, but I had to keep walking. I abandoned my axe - it was of no use to me - and kept crawling to the best of my abilities. The forest was beautiful, without the webs and the spiders haunting it. Colours I never saw before melted into each other in a kaleidoscope, but something in the back of my head suggested that it may be the secretion from the spider gland I had clenched in my fist. The ground rippled every time I placed a hand or foot on it and giddy laughter escaped from my lips like fluttering birds. I continued crawling as my body became numb, until my palms felt water and I slid through the mud and into the dark, still surface of liquid, abandoning my Journal at the edge, along with the spider gland. The cold was a slap to the face. I glanced down, realising I was hunched, underwater, in a small pond of some sort, and the infection and venom from my leg tainted the entire thing - in my haze of chemically-induced delirium, I had tainted what may be my only water source for a long time. Reluctantly, I pushed myself to the surface and took a well-deserved bath. After all, I was starting to look a bit grimy. The wooden armour was removed, and hung to dry. I could stand in the pond as I didn't need to force weight on my leg, but on land I struggled to stand even for a moment. No food, no water, and only enough wood from my makeshift armour for one night. I knew I had to rest up and get moving, else I would die here. If I die here, I will never see W for myself, and I can't let that happen. I'm a scientist. I focus on what is and what is not, what may or may not be. ~~~ DIARY SPAM. I wanted to get these bits out of the way, because we're getting closer and closer to another plot post! Who here can spot all of the references?
  18. Blood Eagles Comic + Art

    I adore the way you draw Carter! It's really cute, but you can also see Maxwell in him.
  19. Why isn't there a "Love this" button. This makes me feel happier than a thousand bunnymen on cocaine. Thank you for the kind words.
  20. All these lovely comments. I especially like the fact you're trying to piece together the story; in my mind, that's the work of a good literature writer. Thank you again for all the positive feedback, it's really inspiring!
  21. DAY WHATEVER THE HELL IT IS What. I awoke painfully to mumble that word through numb lips, sitting up in the blackened grass from my previous battle, all of my wounds plastered shut with some sort of thick, natural paper and something very sticky and sweet-smelling. What. I called out again, the same word, my fuzzy mind stupidly enjoying the noise of it and the way my mouth has to move to form it from air passing through my vocal chords. My journal, my journal, it lay open and I crawled towards it pathetically. My life-line, my sanity anchor, my only friend. What. I choked on my new word, staring down at the paper, seeing but not believing. Processing but not thinking. How much blood did I lose? I should be dead. I should be dead. There's somebody out there, somebody who can write, who has just saved my life. I shook with...with emotion, journal. Pure, indescribable emotions that I haven't subjected myself to for eight long and arduous years, since the Incident occurred. It was as if my body was trying to force these feelings, like toxin, out of every pore, every orifice. I had to rid myself of these feelings, because they did not feel good on my heart. I didn't even know how to categorize this. Was I having a panic attack? My body convulsed and shuddered as I roared, my voice broken and hoarse, a rippling cry of anger and fear and loss. Memories surfaced in front of me as I staggered to my feet, throwing aside everything I could get my hands on, tears streaming and tangling in my beard. What was this? This was not me, journal, but I was on my last few straws. The realisation that I was not alone seemed to be too much for me. I couldn't handle it, it wouldn't sit well with me. Like some sort of big, black, smug beast scratching at my back, ever-present, grinning at my plight. THERE WAS SOMEBODY THERE AND THEY HAVE NOT REVEALED THEMSELVES TO ME FOR SIX WHOLE DAYS. THEY DID NOT HELP ME IN THE SLIGHTEST. THEY LEFT ME TO STRUGGLE AND STARVE. My shaking subsided, settling in my stomach which twitched uncontrollably. The ground pitched and reeled at my feet as I doubled over and retched, expelling nothing but bile onto the grass. My eyes slipped up to the hounds lying dead, swarmed with flies. Their pupil-less eyes stared at me accusingly, fearfully, respectfully. I could only barely make out their features. They were piles of meat and bone now, nothing more. I had chopped them down like I had with the tree. What was this? This was not me. My pale hands reached for the handle of the axe. It was smeared with blood, and it grinned at me. Cowardice? It seemed to ask me. "What," came my dry answer. "What do I do." I asked the axe. "Where do I go?" I asked the sky. As the temper tantrum passed, I found myself feeling as grey as the clouds above me. Black and thick and hollow and numb, I felt like I had given up on everything. My intellect wouldn't come back, and I felt like it was gone forever. I walked a few more paces and fell to the grass, my limbs too heavy to move. My lips formed the questions that floated, unanswered, in the back of my mind. What do I do? Where do I go? What NOW? It all felt pointless, now I knew I was being watched. Perhaps if I almost die again, they'd come back and help me? Perhaps they may take me home? No. No, they wouldn't do that. They gave me one more chance, and I want to waste it. A chance that I never had eight years ago, or perhaps a chance that I did have eight years ago but wasted all the same. I wouldn't give up, not this time. They can't take me like they took her. I will not fall victim to the chemical reactions known as emotions. I felt my mind coming back and fitting comfortably in my skull as I pushed myself to my feet. I needed food, I needed water, I needed firewood and I needed to get away from this scene of slaughter. I need to clean my axe, I need to repair my clothes, I need to scrub clean the evidence of my sins and pray for the best. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't know where I'm going, but I know for a fact that I have to, because if I don't, I may just lose my mind once more. ~~~ Crazy Wilson is always best Wilson. I enjoyed writing this, and I hope you're all enjoy reading it too. Poor guy's only been in the Islands for one week and already he's going a bit mad...but I think I would too, with nobody there to talk to except a book. I'd imagine that he talks to the book whilst he's writing in it. LOADS of secrets in that entry, too, and some you may be able to link back to previous entries! \o/
  22. I like the part where you make cooking metaphors for your artwork. You're not an oven, y'know, or a machine! You're an artist, and a brilliant one at that...I could never get the hang of Zbrush and it scared me away. Still, that thing looks brilliantly horrific. Keep up the brilliant work!
  23. I'm as in awe with your artwork as you are with my writing. I'm usually a 'silent sneak onto forum thread and fangirl about people's work' kind of person. Day 7 is in the works!