I wanted to write some Don't Starve fanfiction but wasn't sure how to go about it. I made this, and I like the result. I hope you do too, and if you don't, all is good and we continue to live and breathe :)
This story has some otehr attempts hidden in my computer, but they aren't worth much. If I get 10 reviews asking me to post it I will, otherwise I won't.
Enjoy!
There was a crazy man, living round the ole town of Shanter.
He had been a pretty normal fellow, anti-social and strange, but a gentleman nonetheless. He kept to himself and only showed up to get his load of strange supplies. Though weird, he was a known character around the old village of Shanter, and when mentioned, it was always with a headshake and a smile.
One day, the man did not come for his weekly supplies, nor for his monthly restock. His house was even more in disarray than it had ever been before, and he did not answer to knocks on the door. The townspeople feared for the worst, and broke open the door, expecting to find the poor man's remains rotting away in a corner.
What they found however, was far stranger than that.
Machinery littered the house as common as dust, paired with ominous liquids in bottles and unreadable labels. The walls were covered with frantic writing, going from mathematic equations to demonic summon rituals. The books littering the place were of the forbidden kind, spewing dangerous nonsense about immortality, resurrecting the dead and other powers kept wisely beyond the grasp of man by God. Countless animals lied dead in cages, others hung nailed from walls or lied disassembled on a platter.
The most frightening discovery however, was the enormous machine standing in the attic. It barely resembled a machine, with its toothy grin and flashing eyes. It was a devil's tool, and by the ominous brown stain on the floor before it, everyone could guess where the devil worshipper had gone.
The demonic books were collected, and returned to hell through a blazing fire. Nobody dared to go near the ominous machine, and it was decided that it would be set on fire with the rest of the house. The bravest men of the village gathered dry hay and laid it around the house, some even spilling valuable lantern oil around the place just to make sure it would burn.
Some theorized it wouldn't burn at all, as it clearly was a patch of hell itself brought to earth by the devils minion. Others bragged and preached they had known all along that the man had been a mad pawn of satan, and that his strange hair had been poised to hide his demonic horns.
The whole village showed up to see the house burn, and they all chanted prayers to overpower the sounds of hell emanating from the house.
For a whole month, the demonic house was the only topic the villagers spoke about, and the stories about the findings got wilder with every teller. Everybody had forgotten about the likeable but weird man coming in to get his crate of supplies, and only remembered a demon.
That made it all the more horrifing when a good three years later the sky turned purple, and black lightening dropped down on the remains of the demonic house.
The purple clouds dissipated in minutes, but everyone in Shanter knew that the trouble had only begun. The devil had sent his offspring to their village once again.
They knew what they had to do, and the women cried when their strong men armed up to face a demon.
The foundations of the house were still blackened from the fire, but the machine they had so carefully set on fire rose out of the ground, black as the night and surrounded by eerie stone trees. The blackened floor was checkered like a chessboard, and a smeared out puddle of blood laid in front of the devilish portal.
The men did not lower their axes and bats, and silently followed the direction of the bloodied footsteps leading into the forest.
It was only the sound of his voice that reminded them of the man that once housed the deformed body now in front of them. His hands were caked with old black blood, and a filthy beard threatened to swallow him whole. His eyes were mad, and he waved an ominous staff at them, ice cold air gusting past them.
He shouted in crazy talk, cursing a man called Maxwell and blabbering about more time, winter and foods. It was like he wasn't even expecting an answer at all, and was just talking to himself. He held a crude soft golden amulet clutched in his hand and hugged it to his chest as if it were life itself. If the villagers hadn't been so afraid, they might have seen a man driven insane by long solitude and continuous struggle, but all they saw now was a demon.
They charged at him, and he ran like he hadn't done anything else for the last years. He would have outrun them, if it hadn't been for a young man chucking his pitchfork at the lunatic. By pure chance, the tree points embedded themselves in his back, and he fell flat on his face. He was still trying to crawl away from the angry mob when they reached him, and beat him until he stopped moving.
With great reluctance, three men grabbed his legs, and dragged him over the forest ground to where the demonic machine still waited. The local priest had brought holy water, wafers and crosses, and the men of the village tied the demon worshipper to his own demonic device.
The flames licked at his skin, and he screeched as a banshee so loud. In the blaze of the fire, the villagers could see his horns and skin burn away, until only a vague human form remained hanging in the fire. The villagers fed the fire until the haunted structure slowly came down, and then doused it, with bucket after bucket of holy water and blessed wafers.
The man's remains, if they could be called that, were nothing but charred bones. The villagers cursed at the demon that had inhabited such a human body, but keeping the Lord's words in mind, they took a moment to think of the good man that had once lived in this body. He too, had been a child of God, but had chosen to desert his Father like a stubborn child. At least now, he would be free of hell's burden, and taken into his maker's forgiving arms.
A soft glow from the ashes caused everyone to step back, and yell in surprise. Men clutched their weapons in their hands, and the few women present hid their children behind their dresses. A golden light slowly rose up from the ashes, with a warm red gleam shining out the middle.
The sun peeked through the clouds, and the ashes from the fire spiraled around the small lightball. Slowly but surely they began to take form, muscles over bone, skin over muscle, until Wilson, as innocent as he had been years and years ago, stood alive before them.
His skin was no longer gleaming with sick sweat, but pale and smooth. His clothes were impeccable, and his eyes, though confused and afraid, were clear and wide with amazement.
"A miracle…" It was the priest who spoke, and beamed at the skies. The villagers dropped their weapons, and turned their gaze to the sky, as if to catch a glimpse of their God. He truly knew no boundaries in his love, to grant even His most deranged children another chance at a decent life.
People danced and rejoiced on the ashes of the evil machine and demonic house. The resurrected man slinked off unnoticeably, plucking grass and twigs from plants as he put as much distance between himself and the villagers as he could.
In his back were still three shallow wounds, and under his neat shirt a fresh burn screamed at him. Only when he was alone in the forest, and could no longer hear any trace of the villagers did he sit down to weave a small rabbit trap. "I don't know where you sent me this time Maxwell, but it is the most cruel world of all…"