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Season of Giving 2020

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User avatar

CrossKnight35 member of RPG for 7 years

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

203,155 words written.
453 total posts.
448 words per post.
41 posts per roleplay.
149 average days in a roleplay.
11 universes joined.
4.50 INK received in tips.

Basic Information

Username:
CrossKnight35
Location:
Perth, Australia
Age:
26
Interests:
Dark Fantasy, High Fantasy, Heroic Fantasy Sci-Fantasy, Softer Scifi, Giant Robots
Groups:
Favorite Role Playing Game:
Dark Souls
Game Master:
Yes
Favorite Setting:
Fantasy and Scifi

User statistics

Joined:
Fri Aug 01, 2014 1:43 am
Last visited:
Mon Jan 11, 2021 2:43 am
Medals:
11
Total posts:
Search user’s posts
(0.00% of all posts / 0.01 posts per day)
Most active forum:
Out of Character
(175 Posts / 1093.75% of user’s posts)
Most active topic:
The Shamrock Chronicles
(39 Posts / 243.75% of user’s posts)

Contact CrossKnight35

Elsewhere

Medals

Promethean

Promethean

Successfully created a universe for others.

Conversation Starter

Conversation Starter

Created your first topic!

Author

Author

Wrote your first piece in a universe!

Inspiration

Inspiration

Another user created a post in a universe you created!

World Builder

World Builder

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

Conversationalist

Conversationalist

Participated in 10 different conversations on the forum!

Novelist

Novelist

Wrote over 80,000 total words!

Completionist

Completionist

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!

Lifegiver

Lifegiver

Created a character in an RPG universe.

Tipworthy

Tipworthy

Awarded for receiving your first tip from another user!

Universes

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

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

Image



Image


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.



Image


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.

Thud!

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:

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Image
#740c50
#8E1717



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 ͡°)"


0.25 INK received for post #2815968, located in Atlas City:

Clink.

A sharp, metallic sound pricked Vic's ears. It came from her left, in the shadows of an alleyway. The silhouette of a man, faintly illuminated by a flickering flame. His thumb tugged the cap of a lighter open, then closed.

Clink.

The man stepped out of the dark, dressed in a midnight-coloured, single-breasted suit. He glared at her, with golden-ringed hazels as bright as his fire. Lines were etched into his angular, frowning features. A crown of dark curls adorned his head, cut close yet stylish.

Clink.

"You lost, boy?" He asked, his voice a raspy, guarded hiss.

Vic watched the stranger approach with a wary side-eye. She kept her missing hand hidden in her pocket, and shuffled out a cigarette packet with the other.

“No, I’m lollygagging,” she stated, and flicked a cigarette out of the pack with her thumb before holding it out to him.

The stranger's brows shot up. That voice. A woman, he realised. He eyed her carefully, then scoffed.

"You look like shit," He remarked. "What are you… homeless? Junkie?" He snapped the lighter shut. "Smoking will kill you."

Vic gave him a flat stare before tucking her cigarettes back into her pocket. “So you just carry that lighter around for the intimidation factor.”

"Use it for my cooking," He replied, matching her deadpan. The stranger held the lighter high, and its chrome surface caught the sunlight. "Reliable. Unlike those kitchen lighters."

Clink.

The stranger flicked the lighter alight once more. Vic narrowed her eyes, and immediately all the oxygen around the little flame was snuffed out and the light along with it. He did a double take, and flicked the lighter on and off a couple more times, to no avail. His lips curled with disapproval and Vic snorted.

“Yeah, looks it,” she laughed, hand instinctively going up to hide her grin despite the mask.

The stranger shot her a dirty look. For a second, Vic swore she saw the golden rings on his eyes flash. He pocketed his lighter. "Club's closed. Go home, come back in ten hours."

The amusement in Vic’s eyes dropped and she raised a brow, pushed herself up off the wall and slunk towards him. “So you work here,” she remarked. "Mmh. That's how I got the suit," he replied. “Cute. Look, I’m not here to party at this dive. Where’s Lab Rat?”

The stranger's entire body language shifted. Lower, more guarded. The glow in his eyes returned, prominent against the dark shadows of the alley. "Who the fuck are you?" He asked, as much a question as it was a threat. Vic’s eyes flicked to the side in exasperation.

“You said it, junkie. Just here to get my fix - why the fuck does it matter?” her tune changed mid-lie, “The freak’ll probably end up killing me for kicks anyway. Where do I find Lab Rat?”

The stranger considered her words. He looked at her from top to bottom, skepticism coloured his eyes… but he relented. With a sigh, he turned around and beckoned her to follow. "Lab Rat is a freak," He stopped and glared over his shoulder. "And you're a fool for dealing with him."

The stranger marched on anyways, towards Shapeless. "What's your name?" He put his hands inside his pockets. "Need to know what to write in your obituary."

Whomph. The sound of baggy clothes hitting the ground turned his head. Stepping out of the mound on the ground was a concerningly thin and beaten up body in a pair of skinny jeans and a crop top, with a loose yellow and black mesh singlet. She threw the beanie down in the pile. Her hair was cut short, still an eye-burning red, but now just ticking her earlobes in a messy bowl cut.

“Vicki Vortex,” she answered as she tugged down her mask. The stranger's eyes widened at this revelation. His jaw dropped, and he stared, unblinking and slack-jawed, for far too long. Vic’s brow twitched. “What? I know, I’ve got all the sex appeal of Ellen Page. But -” She followed his eyes, to the wispy stump her left hand was supposed to be. “... Right. Don’t worry about that. I’m working on it.”

The stranger slowly turned away, visibly growing less comfortable by every second. "...You look like a crackhead."

“Fuck you.”


0.25 INK received for post #2817003, located in Rhindeval:

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#12513




The Rhindeval docks. The setting sun cast a warm glow upon its coast. The masts of a hundred ships jut out across the horizon, like spires of an ancient castle. Gulls flocked above, and their cries traveled for miles away. The bells tolled three times as the red-striped sails of the Razorback slowed its approach and dropped its anchor.

Black boots stomped upon the pier. Crusted by mud and weathered by water and age. The planks creaked underneath the weight of Korgan's hulking muscles. He inhaled to take in that scent, and grinned... salt and smoke, damp wood and gull excrement, and the lingering lavender of a wench's perfume… the scent of a juncture between land and sea. The scent of vacation.

Korgan looked over his shoulder. Two broad, squat, wolf-sized tarantulas drew two carts down a ramp from his ship to the docks, the first filled with barrels upon barrels, tied together by thick cords of rope, and the second… large stacks of crates, nine feet tall and six feet across, much bigger and heavier than the first. The outrider looked on the spoils of his conquest with pride. Ivelda will be pleased, he thought to himself.

Just then, he heard someone cry out his name. High-pitched, squealing. His ears pricked up, and he immediately turned to look, but the sneer on his face faded just as quickly. It was neither a fair maiden nor a fetching lad, as he had hoped. It was a servant, plain-looking and short of breath, there to deliver a message.

"Tyann wants me? HEH!" Korgan spat, rested his hands upon his hips and flexed his muscles on reflex. "Alright! I'll entertain the prick. Hangin' round the stables, I reckon? I can almost smell him from here, GYAHAHAHA!"

Korgan barged past the servant and nearly knocked him over. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the sailors struggling to direct the giant spiders. "Get those bugs to the castle gates. I'll catch up in a bit." He spread his arms wide. "Our Queen deserves her tribute!" With one final cackle, the outrider turned his eyes ahead and walked away.




Some time later, Korgan arrived by the stables. He raised one brow as he observed his summoner. Tyann Rebal, Ivelda's beastmaster. The wyverns and spiders under his employ knew him well, not one of them had not tasted the bite of his whip. "Tyann, my vulpine friend! You still have all your limbs!"

Korgan peered a little closer, cast his eyes downward, and wiggled his brows. "As far as I can tell," he uttered in a lower voice.

The pig-faced outrider scoffed at his own joke, then slowed his approach, turning his attention towards the beast beside Tyann. Korgan leaned back, with a half-disgusted, half-impressed smile. "That has got to be the ugliest thing in all the sixteen kingdoms."

Korgan's smile shifted into a fang-filled grin, and his voice dropped into a whisper.

"Can I keep it?"