Steve24833, The Expert Scrivener
Hi, I'm Steve, pleasure to meet you. I'm an admittedly brash, narcissistic Irish college student who has wandered onto the internet to have some craic and write something. Feel free to check out my games listed down below, I hope you enjoy them.
Anyhow, read my work, or yell at me, or search through my points to see what I've done if you're weird and value that as a use of your time.
"STEVE is the cause of my anger." The Final Brennon
"Steve is a loudmouthed piece of dogshit but we should pity him, life must not be easy for an inbred ginger freak who has to lash out on an internet forum whenever the constant wanking while crying with repressed Catholic guilt because be can't decide whether he likes dicks or tits (because his sister has both) all just becomes too much. His writing is shittier than anyone will admit and I hate him more than anyone in this site." Mizal.
"He's a half-fag degenerate who hates America." Endmaster
"People who quote themselves are retards." Steve24833
"Steve is degenerate filth and an embarrassment to the human race." Axiom
"Steve is undialectical trash and belongs in a gulag." Malkalack
"Steve has made me question every belief I have held up until now about the inherent goodness of people." Will11
"Steve, you have a puny brain and the attention span of a retarded child." JJJ-thebanisher
"Steve is the site's Down Syndrome baby that we all wish we had aborted long ago, but it's too late now, though he is mildly endearing in a drooling retard sort of way." BerkaZerka
"Here you are, throwing insults like a toddler with a dictionary." RoyalGhost_007
"You might be (the greatest writer of all motherfucking time)." Mayana
Take control of General Achilles, a human General trying to lead the human fleet to prosperity through politics and military means, while dealing with keeping humanity and it's allies together, dealing with a barbaric race of raiders and a powerful alien alliance. Will humanity crush it's enemies under it's boots? Will you form a peaceful coalition between all species? Or will you become humanity's downfall?
This is my first game, which I made with the help of Steve24833. I really hope you enjoy it. Please comment on any bugs, mistakes or other screw-ups I made.
Hey, the sequel's here, Achilles II: The Chykri. Enjoy it!
Play as Achilles, the leader of the new Coalition of humans, aliens and machines, to combat a new threat: The Chykri. Attempt to keep the Coalition together and fight not only to win, but to survive.
This is a sequel to our previous game, Achilles. We hope you enjoy it. Please rate and comment. Unless you don't like it, in which case just grumble to yourself about how this one isn't as good as the first. Thanks.
EDIT: Had to do some light work. Changed it so surrendering to Chykri grants alternative final chapter instead of sending back to start, checked grammar, changed a few more mistakes. Please message me or Steve if you find any bugs.
Take control of Jacob, a young settler in New England in the late 17th Century. A tale of romance, horror and strange supernatural creatures awaits you in the odd and interesting woods that surround your home.
Well, this is just a short little romance-horror thing I made in three days to distract me from other projects. I hope you enjoy!
Take control of Samuel, a young man thrust into a world of bloodthirsty creatures of the night, howling beasts cursed by the moon, horrifying demons and worse.
This is our entry for Bucky's 2016 Halloween Contest. Enjoy!
Take control of a teenager moving to Dawnwood, a boring town deep in the south in the middle of nowhere. Still, the town holds many deep and dark secrets, many of which you will uncover soon...
Take control of Karth, a child with incredible powers born into a simple tribe on a feral world, as your life is torn apart by the arrival of the forces of Chaos. Fall into line as an obedient-slave soldier and fulfil your role as a trained killer, rise up against beings of pure hate and malice to try gain your freedom, or simply try to survive in a galaxy of horrors.
Well, I tried to write a Fanfiction based on Warhammer 40'000. If you're not familar with the series, don't worry, you don't need to be to play this. I hope you enjoy!
There are men in this world who were born to have the weight of the world on their shoulders, to have the horrors of the night carved into their souls, to see what shouldn't be seen and to defeat it. You are one of those men. You are a Hunter.
There are dark things that plague the night, things beyond what any soul should have to deal with. Things made from darkness and nightmares, things that feed upon the blood and flesh of the innocent, things that rule the night and loathe the living. These are your prey.
It is the night of your thirteenth hunt. It is time for you to take up your arms and to do what needs to be done, and make sure it's safe to walk at night once more.
This is an entry for the Creatures of the Night contest. There's thirteen endings to find, so good luck finding them. Thanks for playing, and above all, enjoy!
Take control of a young, aggressive Orc named Mazkil, of the Tribe the Red Blades, in his attempt to make his way in the world. Become an honored Chieftain of your tribe or become a feared Soldier for the Kingdom of Man.
Please comment and rate, tell me if you find any bugs. Enjoy!
Take control of Mia, a student at Prometheus Academy, a school designed for creating super-soldiers, trained killers, unstoppable super-humans, skilled secret agents and above all, super-villains, and get revenge against the Crimson Cape, a super who's taken everything from you.
This is the winner of the 2016 School-based Contest, so yay! Thanks to all who voted. I hope you all enjoy it.
There is a prophecy that one day, the barrier between reality and that which lies beyond will weaken. That day the great Mol'Chu will come forth, for it has its infinite eyes set upon this realm. It will drive all creatures to the realms of insanity and torment. However, the prophecy also tells of a great hero who will rise up, and the fate of the world will lie in his hands.
You are not that hero. You are a Ratling, your blood as weak as can be, your lineage one of thieves and cowards. Still, with your path there's a chance for betterment. You might be able to lift yourself up and find yourself some power in this world. Power you will wield.
Thanks to WouldntItBeNice for beta-reading this, he was a great help. This is my longest storygame so far and I've decided to delve into some fantasy again. Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy!
It is 1914. With fears of a war with Germany finally coming to pass, the British Empire has been plunged into war. While the Great War rages on, there is a resurgence of the Irish Independence movement, as the Irish people rise up to take advantage of the times to claim their freedom. You'll be taking the role Michael McCarthy, a young man in such a troubled and turmoil-filled time. Take part in the 1916 Rising, the War of Independence and the Treaty War as brother is pitted against brother, friend against friend and father against son, as a country at war with itself is torn apart.
Well, seeing as it's been 102 years since the 1916 Easter Rising, I'd say an Edutainment game is appropriate to tell the story of the Irish struggle for independence. For the purposes of narrative and to allow choice, your character is a fictional one and at certain points will replace roles done by other men in real life to facilitate the narrative and to allow for choice and interaction, so that you'll be able to see and play a role in key events throughout the period. Enjoy!
Take control of James, a young boy who has suffered from horrific nightmares all his life that seem to be far more real than anyone else thinks, their effects seeping into the real world as your entire life becomes a nightmare. Try to stay sane throughout your miserable existence, while trying to end this curse and find some way to stop this hell.
Well, it's Halloween, and I haven't written anything in a while, so before your old Irish feen goes out and about on sesh, I thought I'd publish this. Enjoy!
Take control of four members of SWAT in Tijuana raid a large, ancient mansion inhabited by the Espada de Dios, a Satanist cult that's kidnapped several people. Switch between these members as they stumble upon a horrific scene of horror, gore and perhaps something much worse...
This is my second horror story, a short little game I made just to help with Writers' Block on my larger games. Thanks to MasonJarGuzzi for proofreading. Enjoy!
Take control of Dagden, a small Orc child taken from his family and taken prisoner in Reaper Castle under the control of the Grand Necromancer, before making friends with his daughter Blaise and choosing how to make your mark in the world.
This is my spin-off to Mazkil, except better, longer and with more things you like and less things you don't like, whatever they may be. Somehow, I've appealed to everyone! I'd like to thank the OKish Mizal for beta-reading and helping me sort through this storygame and make it readable, she was a fantastic help. Please rate, comment and tell me if you find any bugs. Thanks, and enjoy!
Take control of Karth, a young, powerful Psyker who has managed to lead a slave army to take over a massive battleship, and now has the whole galaxy at the tip of his fingers. Embrace the gifts of the Dark Gods and all the power and corruption it brings, sell your services to the highest bidder, take to the stars as a feared raider and pirate or try to find a peaceful existence among the dark and cruel stars. As the anarchic and terrifying Kaam the Prophet, loyal servant of Malice, rises up in the galaxy with a bloodlust for psykers and servants of the Warp, attempt to take down the champion of a destructive God that seeks to tear the galaxy apart.
This is a sequel to Fear the Psyker. It's my longest story yet and it has a lot of variables, so if, or more accurately, when you encounter any bugs, please do send them on, and I'll try my best to fix them. Also, the Score variable doesn't have anything to do with success, it's just a few variables to tell me what various choices commentators made and what endings they got.
Thanks to Seto and DiniTheWizard for beta-reading this! Anyhow, enjoy!
The Draconic creatures once ruled the realm with an iron claw, gods among men. The brutal and animalistic Wyverns hunted as they pleased, the honored and fierce Lizardmen spread across the lands and growing to the billions, the Dragonborn built civilizations of incredible size and discovered magic and technology beyond man's wildest dreams, with the true Dragons lived as gods turned to flesh and bone.
You are none of these powerful creatures. You are a Kobold.
Your species is one of servants, of pawns, of grunts, of disposable warriors that live and die according the will of your dragon masters, lacking the strength, the speed, the magic, the power or even the size bestowed by the Gods to the rest of the Draconic races, surviving only by wits and numbers.
Now, as the dying embers of the once-great draconic races, your tribe is facing extinction at the hands of the young races. You won't let the Draconic flame be snuffed out with you. No, you shall ensure that the world witnesses the flames of your glory, flames that only your kind can create.
You will prove you are truly Draconic.
Articles WrittenVillain Protagonists
Recent PostsNeed a Title on 8/30/2019 9:37:18 AM
The idea that you can "do anything" is somewhat worrying, given the fact that obviously, I can't do anything I want in your storygame. Writing so many paths as to maximise the freedom of choice often makes a story so much work that you just give up halfway. I'd recommend maybe going a bit smaller.
Oh, and since you asked, I'm going to suggest "Unearthly wings" on the assumption both demons and angels have wings.
50 words story thread. on 7/3/2019 11:43:37 AM
Cool, I'll take this as the first ever fanfiction of one of my things.
50 words story thread. on 6/25/2019 3:00:16 PM
Sliding the blade out of her throat, I repeated the mantra one more time. Abigail tried to plead with me, but only a wet, gurgling noise came out of her sliced-open trachea. I looked up, smiling up into the great void. Finally, it smiled back. It was time to begin.
Wtf is wrong with you? on 6/25/2019 2:28:09 PM
OK, let's do this. I'm a POC, because Irish isn't white and I stand by that. I'm bisexual, so that's great. I have serious narcissism issues and a rational fear of clowns, that's a trauma. My mom's pubis sort of hurts, I think I cut it shaving. I think that's everything.
Just Another Day In HELL on 5/2/2019 4:59:04 AM
You got the plot right, just the reverse of it, then.
Just Another Day In HELL on 5/2/2019 4:57:50 AM
The plot twist should've just been the Mum had successfully shot a deer and now they could eat meat.
Just Another Day In HELL on 5/2/2019 4:57:18 AM
Glad you enjoyed it, thanks.
Just Another Day In HELL on 5/2/2019 4:54:35 AM
I assumed 1000 was a minimum, not a goal to meet. I wasn't really going for any bit of a twist, I mean, I think it would've been clear enough there was cannibalism going on, because cannibalism is the clear evil twist when hungry people are suddenly eating lots of meat. I'm glad you enjoyed it, anyhow, thanks for the criticism, I'll take it on board.
Just Another Day In HELL on 5/1/2019 7:45:25 PM
I don't know, maybe it's just me, but I find the lack of any real information on the situation more annoying than anything else. Well-written, though.
Just Another Day In HELL on 5/1/2019 7:36:11 PM
It has been a long, hungry winter. But Mama has taken care of us.
We aren’t hungry anymore.
The snow has settled outside and has stopped for now. I try to keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, trying to ignore the sobbing from upstairs. It looks peaceful. The snow-capped mountain peaks stretch across my view, spines of ice and stone stabbing into the still and quiet sky. It’s beautiful, in a way.
Papa used to say the giants slept there. Hidden deep inside. Sleeping. One day, he said, they’d wake up. And they’d look at us small little things, and they’d judge us. Whether we were good, kind decent folk, or whether we were dark, twisted little things scuttling around.
I was scared of that, once. Scared that they’d know of the extra helpings I greedily devoured, scared they’d know of the times I angrily smacked my sister, scared they’d know of the lies, the sin, the evil that dwelt within me.
I’m not scared anymore.
Mama said there’s nothing sleeping in the mountains. I believe her. She doesn’t lie. She takes care of us, she always has, even when the bad times came, when the bad things came and took Papa.
I hope Mama is wrong. I hope one day, because it will be good. Because they will crush us like ants, and it will be just.
“There’s more stew, Margaret.”
A voice, timid and soft.
A haggard face peaks out from the rags and worn blankets sitting by the fire. A young face, once beautiful and kind, now weathered. Big, bright eyes sunken into a pale, skull-like face. The face of poverty, of famine, of hunger.
But we aren’t hungry anymore.
“I know. There’s lots more stew, Annabelle.”
“Would you like a second helping?”
I stare at her for a moment, before nodding slowly. Annabelle fills a wooden bowl, offering it to me. I stare down at it. It looks delicious, and it smells better, the smell of the meat-filled broth drifting up to my nostrils. As I take the bowl, somewhere deep inside, I hope the giants are watching.
Hunger drives people. It’s primal. Instinctual. Animalistic. The urges that dwell deepest in our hearts drive us to the deepest depths. Hunger. Sleep. Warmth. Lust.
Lust it what brought the men here. They were rare, at first, but more came. Every few days, a knock came at the door. That’s when I took Annabelle to play in the garden, among the flowers. If I went far enough, to where the trees became the forest, I couldn’t hear Mama anymore. The moaning. The grunting. The screaming. The fucking. Mama doesn’t know I know that word, but I do. Papa never said it. He was a good, god-fearing man.
Papa didn’t fuck. He made love. He was sweet like that.
But that isn’t what those men do. They don’t come here for love. They come here to fuck. To fulfil an urge. It’s primal. Instinctual. Animalistic.
Papa always left soft kisses on Mama’s neck when he left. The men leave money at the door, whatever meagre sum Mama is worth to them. That, and a baby. A baby, innocent and pure, that grows in Mama’s stomach, growing more and more every day.
What money Mama makes from the travellers isn’t much, but it’s enough. Enough to keep the hunger at bay, and that’s all we really need.
At least, it was. In the summers, when the road was clear, when travellers passed by the cottage. When flowers burst across the fields, flashes of colour and brightness. When times are good.
The winters offer no such respite. The harsh winds snap at you and tear at what few rags you wear. The snow smothers the fields, killing what little life manages to survive through Fall. The cold bites through your bones, bitter and unceasing.
But I don’t mind the cold. It simply numbs the senses and steals away poor souls, letting them drift off to sleep.
I don’t fear the cold. I fear the hunger. The hunger tortures, it gnaws away at you. First, it gnaws away at your flesh. It makes you thin and frail. Then, it gnaws away at your mind, making you crazed and desperate. Willing to do anything. Then, it gnaws away at your soul. At your memories, at your passions, at your morals. It gnaws away, until nothing’s left but the hunger. Until all you are, all that’s left, is that animalistic hunger.
They say it’s all that remains in the bad things. That the hunger changes you, twists you, destroys you. They say it makes you into an animal.
But I don’t believe that. Hunger doesn’t make, it doesn’t change. It’s an absence. All it can do is take. It takes away the pretty masks we wear. It takes away the lies we tell ourselves to sleep at night. The morals we so hypocritically hide behind. It takes away the facade, revealing us for the animals we are. The monsters that hide underneath the soft, delicate skin.
The beasts within are always there. I can hear mine, sometimes. If I listen very softly to my heartbeat. It whispers things to me in the faintest voice, as it waits, patient and still. Mama’s voice whispers to her as well, I can tell. I’m sure somewhere deep inside, it whispers to Mama.
But we aren’t hungry anymore.
They don’t come out until you let them. Not until hunger drives you to release them, to break that final taboo and let the animalistic urges take over. Maybe they’re trapped. Maybe they’re not ready yet. Maybe they just know that when you embrace them, when you take off your mask and show who you are underneath the facade, their moment of victory will taste all the sweeter.
It watches you struggle. It watches your desperation grow as your body begins to devour itself, desperate for nutrients. It watches you cling to the pathetic morals you swear you’ll hold true. Then, when you’re finally ready, the Wendigo comes out to play. It fills your belly, and the hunger finally stops. For the time being. But it comes back. It always does. No matter how many cold winters you survive, no matter how many times you fill your belly, the hunger always returns.
It must’ve been whispering in Mama’s ear for days. She’d done everything else to protect us. She had to. And I will be forever grateful for what she’s done for us. But even after all she’s done, it was part of her mask. And that mask is slipping.
Upstairs, the weeping has stopped. Mama is still now. The stew is warm in my stomach, and Annabelle is still next to me, fast asleep. Only the gentle sound of her breathing tells me that she’s still alive. With her pale, emaciated body, it’s hard to be sure sometimes.
The men came rarely in the winter. But they still came. A young man came by yesterday, a wanderer. He had money on him, but it was no good to Mama. Mama didn’t have the strength to walk to the village and buy food, and the stranger had little willingness to help him. He was just a man, like any other, seeking to fulfil his urges, and nothing more.
Mama needed to take of us. She threw away the final taboo, because her children, those she loved and cherished more than anything in the world, were so desperately, endlessly hungry.
But we aren’t hungry anymore.
Mama opened the door to the bad thing inside her, and now, it’s crawling out. It’s upstairs now. In the morning, while she cooked the soup, I could see it in her. In her eyes. They were dark, almost black. When she smiled at me, when she reassured me it would be alright, there was gristle in her teeth.
I can hear crying from upstairs, but not like before. It’s fresh now and high-pitched. The first cries of life, as a new life enters the world. Normally, it would fill me with joy. But Mama isn’t herself anymore. I saw her this morning. Her pretty features were gone. They’d been weathered away by time, hardship and hunger, but now, no signs of them remained. Her mask was gone, and the beast inside was taking over. She’s up above, changing still. Letting the hunger consume her.
The tears are coming faster, now. They’re pouring down my face, hot and wet. I think I’m sobbing, but only softly, so Mama doesn’t hear. I gently close my eyes, listening to the creaking of floorboards upstairs. The baby’s cries are brought to the end by the sound of a sickening crunch.
There’s a moment where I still my breath, trying to stop even my heart from beating for fear of Mama hearing. Then, there’s the crunching of bones breaking, of bloody meat slithering down a throat, of a wet tongue lapping at bloody remains.
Then, silence once more.
I release my breath, listening to my heart beating fast and loud.
Looking down, I see Annabelle’s big, brown eyes staring up at me. I pray silently she didn’t hear Mama tearing off the last traces of her facade.
“It’s OK. Go to sleep. Just shut your eyes and go to sleep.”
Annabelle nods obediently, squeezing her eyes shut.
I am terrified, scared and alone, but Mama will take care of us. She has always taken care of that. Soon, she will be down to us. Or, whatever the hunger has left of her will be down to us. She’ll prowl forward, the bestial urges having taken her, the mask having slipped off forever. She’ll kill us. She’ll devour us. She’ll tear us apart, as the beast inside feeds.
Hopefully, Annabelle sleeps through it. Hopefully, she falls asleep and never wakes.
But she won’t. From the tears running down her face, and the loud crunching of the stair boards as Mama slowly lumbers down, I know she’ll be awake. I know she’ll see what’s left of Mama, as will I, and she’ll feel every bit of what’s to come.
But at least we aren’t hungry anymore.