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CrossKnight35 member of RPG for 10 years

Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration World Builder Conversationalist Novelist Completionist Visual Appeal Lifegiver Tipworthy Giver

230,630 words written.
562 total posts.
410 words per post.
40 posts per roleplay.
176 average days in a roleplay.
14 universes joined.
634.00 INK received in tips.

Basic Information

Perth, Australia
Dark Fantasy, High Fantasy, Heroic Fantasy Sci-Fantasy, Softer Scifi, Giant Robots
Favorite Role Playing Game:
Dark Souls
Game Master:
Favorite Setting:
Fantasy and Scifi

User statistics

Fri Aug 01, 2014 1:43 am
Last visited:
Wed Sep 27, 2023 8:14 am
Total posts:
Search user’s posts
(0.00% of all posts / 0.00 posts per day)
Most active forum:
Out of Character
(176 Posts / 1035.29% of user’s posts)
Most active topic:
The Shamrock Chronicles
(39 Posts / 229.41% of user’s posts)

Contact CrossKnight35





Successfully created a universe for others.

Conversation Starter

Conversation Starter

Created your first topic!



Wrote your first piece in a universe!



Another user created a post in a universe you created!

World Builder

World Builder

Created your first non-default location in an RPG universe!



Participated in 10 different conversations on the forum!



Wrote over 80,000 total words!



Helped write the story of a universe that survived until the end (marked as "Completed") and was published to the Library.

Visual Appeal

Visual Appeal

Awarded for adding an avatar to your profile!



Created a character in an RPG universe.



Awarded for receiving your first tip from another user!



Has given a tip to another user!


7 created.
0 active.
7 inactive.
1 completed.

Completed Stories

Battlefield Stratevaria Completed

Fight your way through the Stratevaria Galaxy to face an apocalyptic entity, take him down, and save the universe.

Universes Created

The Gala-Dor Expedition

"So, you walk into a tavern." [FULL 8/6 oh dear]

Most Tipped Posts

612.25 INK received for post #2821710, located in Atlas City:

Scourge's brows were flat as he peered upon the plastic-bagged abomination before them. Bobbing, up and down, and up and down… the cheerful, cheese-dyed faces at the front seeming to taunt them with his empty-headed smile.

"Is that… is that a bad haircut or-" Scourge leaned closer with a squint. "Oh. Those are just sunglasses." He slowly, slowly turned towards Vic and concluded, "...This is a scam."

It was then that the two were greeted by an… unfamiliar woman. One whose statuesque beauty turned Scourge's head and roused his other head awake. "Huh? Well, HELLO there, gorgeous!" The green giant turned on his stool to face her and straightened his posture. "Ya come here often?" The fact that this alleged stranger seemed to know his name went right over his head. "I ain't religious. I know exactly who MY God is, and he didn't stick around for prayers."

Scourge's shoulders shook up and down as he chortled. "Still, Tussauds… that's the house with the dead-eyed statues, RIGHT?" He turned towards Vic, his eyes narrowed with a smirk. "We should go there together, Coop. See what 'God' looks like, hehehe…"

15.00 INK received for post #2817773, located in Rhindeval:


Freddie's gaze remained vacant in the face of Justice's words. A vacant gaze to pay tribute to the rich girl's vacant head. It was the loud crack of Reese's skull meeting Justice's that drew a glimmer of attention from her, and she stood on her tippy toes to watch the show right next to Sibylla.

"Wish I had brought…. some kettle corn…," she quietly mused.

Reese had attacked the rich girl. Cassie and Lilith swiftly descended to break up the fight. Freddie strolled over to Cassie, one hand raised like the dutiful student she wasn't.

The pale-haired girl beckoned Cassie to hand Reese over. She patted her shoulders, checked her forehead, and squinted, deep in thought.


Freddie nodded once, and looked Reese straight in the eyes.

"You're good."

She turned Reese around and shoved her back towards Justice.

2.50 INK received for post #2811837, located in Zoltia:



A glint of sunset peered from between the sky and the river. Warm, orange light bathed Arc en Lume’s skyline, reflected over the canals which linked the city’s many districts. A gondola moved through the water, the weary faces of merchants settled in its seats. The boat passed under a bridge, where two lovers embraced and confessed their feelings. At the city center loomed the red and gold spires of the Sacred Flame’s grand cathedral. Before it, clergymen scooped the ash from a golden chalice, twice the size of the men attending to it.

On the eastern edge of the city, upon the outskirts which overlooked the primeval oaken forests, where old bricks had stood strong and steadfast for innumerable years, where crimson banners and flowering vines hung over sidewalks of tiled stone. The Commons. Home to labourers, louts, and adventurers desiring transient and affordable refuge. A dwarf lumbered across the pavement, a lithe, cloaked shadow trailing behind him. His broad, gloved hand waved off the scurrying forms of street urchins, then checked his pockets.

“These humans need to keep a better eye on their children, I tell ya,” the dwarf muttered to his companion. His voice hoarse and deep, with an accent too rough and uncouth for Beaucourt. He nodded to himself, satisfied with the amount of coin in his purse, then turned his attention to a nearby notice board. There was more paper than wood, with advertisements, missives, and public service announcements, all stacked upon each other without regard for organisation. The dwarf glanced left and right, to make sure that nobody important was watching, tore several sheets from the board, and crumpled them up to put inside his pockets. He looked to the board, and saw his own notice - loud, clear, and no longer buried under such frivolous requests.


The dwarf huffed, pleased with himself, then turned and walked away. His concealed companion remained a moment before the missive board. A dark, slender hand reached out from the cloak and tugged the advertisement down. As they followed after the dwarf, the worn piece of parchment blew down the street behind them into obscurity.

Night fell, and the last trace of sunlight faded into the dark. But within the Jovial Jackalope tavern, the fires of the hearth burnt bright, casting light and warmth through brick walls and wooden ceilings. Bards strummed their lutes, patrons downed their drinks, and wenches weaved to avoid wandering hands. The dwarf sat in the corner alongside his hooded companion, his arms clasped over the table, his pauldrons reflecting the light of the candles and the fireplace. His eyes wandered from the door, to his half-empty mug, and back again. This is the day, he thought to himself. I can feel it in my jellies.

1.00 INK received for post #2815618, located in Zoltia:

The southern Arc-en-Lume watchtower. One of the capital’s many holding cells laid here, beneath the floors upon floors of barracks. Here, under the dim, crackling torchlights and the incessant rattle of chains and shackles, the city’s many thieves, thugs, and other miscreants remained. Some awaited trial. Others hoped for bail or pardon. All, however, longed for freedom. Freedom from the rusted, blood-scented chains. From the stale, dusty air. From the possibility of a worse fate within the Siren’s Epitaph, Beaucourt’s most fortified prison, secluded deep within the western mountain range.

The sound of footsteps drew Iz’Hana’s ears. The bright yellow glow of a lantern peered down the spiral staircase just across his cell. His keen huntsman’s senses recognised these sounds. The familiar, metallic clink and clank of the guards’ steel sabatons, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps, one with shorter, slower strides than the other.

The faceless armet of one guard looked straight at Iz’Hana. “Hey, Darkie. We’ve got a friend for ya.” The other guard cackled and dragged the bound form of a drow woman down the stairs, across the cobblestone floor, and in front of Iz’Hana’s cell. The first guard unlocked the door, and the second tossed the woman inside.


Her lanky body rolled over the dust thrice over. The guards shut the door, and began to move along with their second prisoner - a stout dwarf, dressed in tattered rags, with beard and eyes as black as ink. “Guards, wait!” He shouted. The guards humoured him. The dwarf shuffled towards the drow woman, his arms bound behind his back and secured by the second guard. ”Don’t celebrate just yet,” he spoke, his voice a calm, low warning. ”The Sacred Flame are lookin’ through my room in the Jackalope this very moment. It’s only a matter of time.”

She spat through the bars, spraying it through her teeth and over his face like a snake spitting venom. “Inbau aturr ulu l’maerch, gorra’h,” she hissed, unable to hold back the laugh in her voice.

Hilgur bared his wide, block-like teeth, his face contorted with layers of wrinkles set by rage. ”NOBODY CAN STOP MY EXPEDITION!” “Alright, that’s enough,” The first guard decided, and dragged a screaming, squirming, incensed Hilgur away, deeper into the dungeons.

A flash of white darted across her dark face. As she turned around, she disposed of her grin, flicking her gaze over to the shadow in the corner. They were hers, with ashen skin and pale eyes more fitting of their kind. A short rolling of her tongue left her lips instinctively, ending on an inflection. A question. Then she frowned, remembering something, and tossed her head without waiting for an answer, slinking towards the other corner.

Zoltian drow. They weren’t hers.

0.50 INK received for post #2817040, located in Rhindeval:


The festival. The park was swirling with a sea of elaborate textiles, of vivid shades of red and purple and blue, and all the colours of the rainbow. So bright, so opulent, it reminded Freddie of another festival entirely. Or was that one a parade?

Freddie looked on, seated atop a giant blue mushroom prop. A patchy, lavender-coloured teddy bear was seated underneath, right next to a worn leather satchel. Her dull eyes reflected a glint of light as she observed the sights before her. So many had put so much effort into their outfits. From the fairy wings that shimmered with a tinge of iridescence, to the noble dresses, with all their ruffles, and buttons, and little golden threads painstakingly hand-sewn to be as authentic as possible.

“You know…,” Freddie spoke up, catching Reese from her peripherals. “People like to look down on corsets… call them 'symbols of oppression' and embellish the pain... that comes... with wearing them.” She swayed to the side, then gestured towards her friend. “But it’s fine, industrious women... like yourself… who created the first corsets.” Freddie wagged her finger. "For highly practical purposes… too."

Freddie perked up one corner of her mouth in a half-smile. "Of course… putting on that kind of stuff is… too much effort for me…" She leaned back and gestured to her costume. A dull, black robe, topped with a pointy, cone-shaped hat. Grey and white speckles stuck to her robe. A realist would call them 'dust', but Freddie preferred to think of them as little shining stars. Of course, realist or not, she couldn't deny the damp, sock-like stench that permeated from it all. "One of the drama club members… lent this to me. Said it's 'collateral' or… however you pronounce it…" Freddie shrugged. "...He owes me fifty."

Reese scraped her butt against the dirt and leaned her elbows over her wide-spread knees. In one hand she held a clutch, in the other a screwdriver. Her outfit was mostly skin with a grease stained apron paired with a worn-out gold bra and tiny shorts with tights that were more holes than fabric. A mechanic’s - blacksmith’s garb.

“Are you watching me do this?” She demanded. She jabbed the screwdriver at bright red moped between them. “Because it’s literally the easiest process. My brain is like, insulted by doing this right now. I’m like a dry -” A trio of bagpipe toting performers blasted their first few notes as they trotted past them, blocking out whatever crude simile Reese was saying and leaving it to your imagination, “- Freddie, I need stimulation.” She checked her phone, leaving a greasy smear across its screen.

Freddie had been staring into empty space. She finally turned towards Reese with raised brows. "Oh. I'm sorry… did you... say something?"

Reese stared. She tossed her work down with a clatter and grunted as she rocked up to her feet. “I’m getting food. You’re gonna have the munchies in a minute,” she announced, “Finished replacing the clutch springs, by the way.” She lifted her oversized denim jacket from the ground and flung it over her shoulder, checking her phone again as she sauntered off.

Freddie waved her goodbye. "Thanks, Reesie." She wondered if she should ask what the 'clutch springs' were. Then immediately shook such thoughts aside. It would go over my head anyway.

Just then, Freddie noticed somebody peeking into her peripherals. A dark-haired girl, slight in build, and seeming even smaller as she hunched. Her glasses reflected the glare of the sun and obscured her eyes.

"Hey… hey there," Freddie called to her, with a lethargic and limp wave. It was a wonder Collette could even hear her in this crowd.

Freddie stared straight at her. "Hey dude... you look… nervous." The dark-eyed woman leaned closer. Close enough for Collette to see the sheen of grease on her pale, unkempt locks, spilling out from underneath her hat. "Would you like something to… take the edge off?"

Freddie wiggled her brows for emphasis.

"( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"