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ARDIENTE

Of course it's a manuscript. What did you expect?

That's not a good way to start, even if it's half Ad Simplicio and half to calm myself down without incinerating this entire forest.

My name is Willow Bennett and this is my journal I started writing shortly after being transported... HERE. "HERE" will be my draft name for this place for the lack of a better one. If you are reading this, I am probably dead. Maybe just no longer HERE. Still, most likely the first one. Sorry about the soot too while we are at it. And the rambling. It's insane, right. I am. Whatever! I have a paper to document it, heh. Also, ignore how bad it is. I suck at first person narrative. And talking about myself. But it's dark out there, my kindling's getting low and I don't want to be forgotten need to stay awake. Miss Arthur would say diaries calm people down. I don't think she's right. Wouldn't be the first time she wasn't. It's not really a diary anyway, just random drabbles to vent off without screaming out loud.

I checked. Doing this in HERE's royally stupid. LOTS of things with good hearing and empty bellies.

This is getting too errant. Guess I'll start again before this charcoal breaks into dusty bits.

My name is Willow Bennett. On the fourth of April 1920, I turned twenty-two. I love books, Spanish, rats. And burning things. Books burning well doesn't help. I guess this fits this stupid "tell the reader about yourself" requirement. The key thing is being a middle of a bleeding nowhere after yet another fabled stupidity of mine. I've been HERE for a week now and I'm not so helpless anymore. Not in the physical aspect anyway.

Tonight, I'm starting a journal. If somebody reads it, I can only hope it may help them a bit. Because I want it to help me. Help not to lose myself.

* * *

The first week sees me stumbling, running, mostly roaming around. It's some sort of a wacky wilderness HERE, all bushes and grass, and evergreens. I'm cold. What I remember is a swirl of wildest colors I can name. (Actually, I can't. They were too crazy. Just... bright. Too bright.) The feeling of being spun around, then a brief moment of darkness shifting into some blinding light, finally dark again. I think I might have just lost consciousness.

With time (and Bernie, and fire), memories come back in flashes. The cop, the cop who interrogated me after running away and being caught. I remember his words, damn them all, a promise of a world with no doctors, no needles, no orphanage staff. You're a firestarter, honey. And nobody will mind it there. I kindled at once. Who wouldn't? Bleeding serves me right.

He's HERE when I rouse, new clothes, fancy ones, with a fading scent of roses. (Not sure why a man would use rose perfumes. You'd think I'd have worse problems to focus on; well, damn. Funny how little things like that stick.) Say, pal, you don't look so good. You better find something to eat before night comes, he says, thumbing his coat. I can't stop gaping at his newly-lit cigar. And then he's gone into thin air, and I'm alone as usual.

I don't think I knew what I was doing at first. Maybe the voluntary time in Girl Scouts ultimately paid off, can't tell. (Wrong; it did. Anything to get away from Miss Arthur and the rest of the staff for a bit. The kiddies were nice too.) Maybe it was just anxiety. Either way, kindling. Grass, twigs, some-such. I'm not a beaver to get wood with no tools, but this stuff lends itself to weaving rope easily, there's some flint lying about too, enough for a crude-ish axe and a pick. Can't say what prompted the latter. It just felt necessary - granted, it turned out so! I get a small stack of logs before dusk comes. It will suffice if I time rekindling right. Starting fires with just some flint is hard, I don't think I can manage, but somehow it works.

I've always had a thing for fire. Can't get why everyone doesn't. It's bright, warm, cheerful, with oh-so-many colors. Most think it is just yellow and red, and orange, but it isn't true. It's also the blue of its beginning and the black of its end, dying green when you set some grass aflame and grey upon turning to ashes. Fire is good. Fire-forged friends, to kindle, fierily. Beautiful too: inflamed, cinders, incinerating, combustive, hellfire.

I can't lie. I love fire. And in HERE, it definitely helps.

Night falls unexpectedly: first, it's dusk and then a complete pitch of black, bar for the ring of light around my campfire. It's good it lasts, because I find the sounds around me pretty scary. With it, I can just focus on the dancing flames, how they spark and flicker. Flamenco. That's actually a lame pun, but whatever. I find the two oddly related.

Maybe it's crazy, but I think there's something in the darkness. Someone, maybe? I can't tell for certain, but I can hear weird whispers, then find myself on the ground, something smelling of burlap on my face.

That's Bernie, my bear. Don't ask.

"Hello?" I call out in the direction he was thrown from, trying to see who brought him back to me, but nobody answers. I just hear some wind that sounds like wailing and the word "loss" in the pines. Probably my sick imagination. I don't know my angel. But I'm grateful, whoever they are.

* * *

The next day, I wake up in Bernie's embrace. The fire is almost gone. It fills me with a prickling sense of loss, but I can't afford wasting kindling, so I gather the ashes into a pocket made out of a leaf and stick them inside before venturing out. In HERE, well... Can't say it's very odd. For now. I see evergreens, birches, some bushes I strip of berries and cook over the dying embers. More saplings, more flint, more grass, all ends up scooped into my lap in a primal urge of gathering. I keep scavenging like a backyard crow, picking all I come across. Around noon, I find a pile of boulders that fall surprisingly quickly under my shapeless pick. At last I'll sleep sound with a few of them keeping my fire close.

I try to remember what I can from the time in Girl Scouts. Water's important, so I run in circles, scaring dumbfounded rabbits away, until I spot a pond. More bushes around it, it lies on the edge of a small forest - or I hope it's small, I've had enough dark places already - grass tufts swaying in the wind. It looks good enough. The water seems clear, I think it will do and grab a conveniently-shaped stone to use as a crude bowl. That fake cop spoke of food, but dehydration is worse and hits faster, I'm aware of that much, so I perch on its bank and scoop the liquid as well as I can.

This is when the most malevolent-looking frog, fat and wrinkled, with bloodlust written all over its sour gob, jumps onto my knees. And literally bites me a whacking heartier than back in NYC. (Note to self: malevolent is a good word. Also, amphibians have no teeth, so they shouldn't bite. That one didn't know that.) I scream, half in pain and half in pure shock, the sound carrying far. Then instinct take over and I watch myself hit the beast with the stone over and over again. It finally stops moving, but not without gifting me with bruises that look rather serious. I clumsily get up, groaning luridly, though not without drinking more, not bothering in wiping froggy bits off it. I'm a true savage now.

At least I got some meat. That's a plus.

My angel speaks to me again. Suddenly, it gets very dark, a hole so black I can't see my hand, and I hear a distinct *fwoosh* close by. I can't discern the words, but I think it's a hissing skirt, sending me fumbling in the setting darkness.

And then it is, cool and smooth to the touch, gleaming metal, the delicate etching of a flower on its top. It's a pretty thing, actually the prettiest I've ever had and a smile cracks across my face as I face a cluster of old pines, turning it in my palm. I know exactly what to do now.

My pocket holds my lighter.

* * *

The next few days are pretty much the same. I gather veggies and flammables, trying to map the surroundings as best as I can, finding places to return to for more resources and food. Topmost, I make sure to have my lighter at hand at all times, plus enough kindling not to waste its flame. I've no idea what hides in the night, but I'm not going to squander my second chance. It's a rare gift, the blessing of light, and I'll need every ace up my sleeve.

I try not to do that, but instinct is too fierce, too untamed: it takes me four days to start hunt rabbits with handwoven traps and a crude spear. With a surplus of logs, I make a shapeless doublet, light enough to allow carrying a small backpack as well, in hopes of mitigating any damage from these pesky frogs. The trick is to creep upon them and start chasing them straight into the trap. I don't feel right about it, I hate snapping the fuzzy neck of the empty-eyed thing, but I need the food and the fur.

I hope their deaths are swift. I cannot tell for sure.

On the fifth day, I find a village. When I notice some ramshackle huts in the distance and something like half-wild crops. For a split second, I run like mad towards them, suddenly rather eager to meet up with someone, anyone, even if they decide put me under drugs, dump me in a single cell and call a freak they don't like me, nearly tripping over some stray sapling.

At least my eyesight isn't faulty. I notice a lurching pink shape oinking at me with a mix of distrust and interest. I'm sprawled on the ground again with a rather aromatic fellow above me. I gape, dumbfounded, at its little snout and a furrowed brow rarely troubled by thought, its lumpy arms and a funny grass skirt over its private bits. I'm mad enough to giggle crazily, to which Porksbury ***** its head quizzically.

"...You not pig," it decides, only slightly accusatively, and I see a bunch of its buddies gathering around me.

And then my eardrums explode.

"Who are you?"

"That my space."

"You no stay!"

"Just leave me alone!"

I squirm on the ground, trying to reach for the spear, but I'm way too scared to grab it with all these pigs circling my stuff. Instead, I pick up the backpack and hold it in the air for a shield. Looks like I've finally slipped. I really don't want to die, Lord, please, just-

"What you got?"

"You has meat?"

"Me hungry!"

"Yes, yes, stuff yourselves, just back off!"

* * *

I've made an observation: males are simple creatures. Give them food and they at last turn disinterested in your insignificant person.

If only I had known earlier.

Pigmen don't scare me so much now. I can gather berries without them eyeing me like Dr Sandbridge creeps. They've eaten all my rabbit meat, but they're friendly now. Looks like they have a society working better than NYC. Not that it means that much. There's a fat, smelly male in the middle who the others refer to as "His Plumpness" or simply "King", one with the gall to throw gold at me when I worked diplomacy and handed him the rest of my meat supplies. I thought better than throwing a fit though. Doctor Hanscomb would be so proud. He'd be less happy if I had a chance to get into his range. After all he'd done I would rather not think about any of them. I much prefer the pork simpletons. They do not judge, just grin stupidly, eating their fill and squinting at me with an earnest expression of bliss. And the things they tell me. You is good. I follow! You friend.

I've never heard stuff like this before and it's the best thing that's ever been mine.

I spend a few days hunting. My plan is to raise an army and cut a bloody swath through the land. With the rabbit meat I obtained, I buy the - temporary - devotion of several pigmen.

(And give them fancy names. Kevin, Joe, Seth, Alex, Corey, Kelly, Philip, Mr. P, and my favourite, Cheeky Chris. Gangs need frightful monikers and these are scary as hell!)

And then we exact bloody vengeance on the frogs. A battle, a glorious, blood-frenzied battle! Frog legs flying to the sky! "I kill now!", "You go smash!" and the ever-appropriate "RAAAWR!". And the amphibian survivors try to flee, only to meet a scorching end in my wall of fire! It's been so long since I laughed that hard, I asphyxiate on my own joy, not minding the mayhem (not to self: mayhem is a fine word) in the slightest. And when I start hacking at a pine to gather kindling and I hear Cheeky Chris running to my side with "You back off! I punch tree! Smash mean tree!", I cannot keep myself from smiling.
   
We get enough wood to last for weeks. I share the loot evenly between my trusty minions and light a giant bonfire. They gather around it, beady eyes glazed with awe and their murmurings "Stay near fire", "Make torch bright", "No like dark" flying to the sky. I feel like Prometheus, not caring about his grisly ending in the slightest. I am alive, there is a fire in me. I'll see it through the end.

Edited by Arlesienne
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1 hour ago, minespatch said:

Crossed out lines work a lot to show of Willow's personality. Showing that she has thoughts she doesn't want revealed but happens to anyway. The discontinued book series Abadazad did that(shame Disney cut it off short). Hope this gets a continuation.

Thank you. I dislike first person narrative and the style of a journal, so it was kind of befitting to go back to both.

Sadly, of the unhappy content, there's much more. This thing helped my Willow headcanon develop.

The Abadazad series which J. M. DeMatteis wrote? With this Long Lankin expy of sorts?

1 hour ago, PandoMish said:

WOOOW...when have i succeeded to commit another one crime? 

I think when you were posting here:

 

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9 hours ago, Pyr0mrcow said:

Willow Bernnett

Aah, I needed to read something like that. Great representation of the character~

Thank you, my good sir, bowing all the way! It's not a good piece and I rather dislike it, but at least it's more accessible to the general public than works with THEIR possession.

11 hours ago, DragonMage156 said:

This is good :)

YOU IS GOOD?

BETTER BE GOOD.

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*holds up shield to guard against her hallowedness's righteous anger*

This is some of the most in-character believable writing I've seen for Don't Starve. Willow, like a lot of the characters, doesn't have a lot of official backstory, and this portrayal here is so perfectly fitting that it just slotted itself in as my headcanon without any squeaks or grinding corners. Your writing style is full of personality, and the little additions of the crossed out sentences just adds to that a ton. With my inner eye I saw myself sitting on a log, surrounded by pinetree,s flipping through the pages of an aged journal with scorched corners that I had just found in an abandoned, charred and overgrown base.

This is excellent, Melady. Please don't hit me.

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5 hours ago, MeingroessterFan said:

*holds up shield to guard against her hallowedness's righteous anger*

This is some of the most in-character believable writing I've seen for Don't Starve. Willow, like a lot of the characters, doesn't have a lot of official backstory, and this portrayal here is so perfectly fitting that it just slotted itself in as my headcanon without any squeaks or grinding corners. Your writing style is full of personality, and the little additions of the crossed out sentences just adds to that a ton. With my inner eye I saw myself sitting on a log, surrounded by pinetree,s flipping through the pages of an aged journal with scorched corners that I had just found in an abandoned, charred and overgrown base.

This is excellent, Melady. Please don't hit me.

puss_in_boots_eyes_spoiler_by_babysonicl

I got a real case of constructive feedback here! For the first time in forever on the forums! THANK YOU!!!

I didn't really have much for Willow to start from, so I made most of it up based on the examination quotes. She's snarky. She's independent. She's witty. And she's hurt.

This was combined with the orphan Willow skin teaser (which I must get one day, huehue). And THIS, in turn, brought back memories of the Shalebridge Cradle AKA THE definitive thriller experience. This made me revise the Cradle staff... and I found Doctor William Hanscomb.

What if @ScienceMachine's Wilbur-turned-William worked in an asylum where Willow was admitted? AFTER his lover died in a car crash and he started embracing the dark side with Maxwell's aid? And what if Maxwell pushed them into each other's walks of life to ensnare them both?

My recent headcanon has Willow accepting the help from Maxwell (dressed as a policeman) after she ran away from the asylum she was put back into after a sleazy employer she was supposed to work as a secretary for upon leaving the orphanage got IDEAS and found the lucky lighter up his rear in defence. I tried to imagine her, naturally distrustful of others, actually being forced to trust someone to avoid even worse things.

And then she's betrayed just as she feared.

I don't find this piece good, because it's very plain and I don't feel the style. But I tried my best :).

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1 minute ago, Arlesienne said:

I don't find this piece good, because it's very plain and I don't feel the style. But I tried my best :).

Well, I did, and so did a lot of others it seems :3 We just want to feeeeel that style... that firm, steady... meter......... *drool*

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Just now, MeingroessterFan said:

Well, I did, and so did a lot of others it seems :3 We just want to feeeeel that style... that firm, steady... meter......... *drool*

For meter, you'd rather look at, say, this (the hallucinatory parts are in made up of iambs broken at the end like the patterning of Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah").

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