ninjapitka, The Expert Scrivener

Member Since


Last Activity

1/16/2021 12:58 AM

EXP Points


Post Count


Storygame Count


Duel Stats

10 wins / 11 losses


Notorious Marauder Exemplar


"Solitude had soon become unendurable to him; a new, violent impulse enveloped his heart, and for a moment the gloom in which his soul languished was illumined by bright light." I found myself lost in the CYS epics, and even though I'm more of a reader than a writer, I wanted to create my own. If you get the sudden urge to write without wanting the burden of completing an entire game, I suggest you check out Rift Station: Open Worlds. I'm no subject-matter expert, but I do know a thing or two about Embracing the Writing Process. Let those into whose hands my "Explanation" falls, and who have the patience to read it through, take me for a madman, or even a schoolboy, or most probably of all a man condemned to death, to whom it has naturally begun to seem that all human beings apart from himself attach far too little value to life, have become far too accustomed to wasting it, avail themselves of it far too lazily, far too unscrupulously, and are therefore unworthy of it, every one of them! And what of it? I declare that my reader will be mistaken and that my conviction has nothing to do with my death sentence. Ask them, just ask them what they all, every one of them, understand by happiness. Oh, you may be sure that Columbus was happy not when he had discovered America but when he was discovering it; be assured that the highest point of his happiness was perhaps just three days before the discovery of the New World, when in despair the mutinying crew very nearly turned the ship towards Europe, back again! What mattered now was not the New World, even though it might have vanished. Columbus died almost without having seen it and not really knowing what he had discovered. What matters is life, nothing but life--its revelation, constant and eternal, while the discovery matters not at all! But what's the point of talking? I suspect that all I am saying now is so similar to the most commonly used phrases that I will probably be taken for a first-grade schoolboy presenting his essay on "the sunrise", or it will perhaps be said that I wanted to express something, but in spite of all my desire to do so was unable to..."develop my thought". But, on the other hand, I would add that in every human idea that possesses genius or is new, or even simply in every serious human idea that is conceived in someone's head, there always remains something that cannot be conveyed to other people, even though whole volumes were written and your idea explained for thirty-five years; there will always remain something that is on no accounting willing to come out of your skull and will remain with you for ever; so that you will die without perhaps ever having conveyed to anyone the most important part of your idea. But if I have also been unable to convey everything that has tormented me these last six months, then at least people will understand that, having attained my present "final conviction", I may have paid very dearly for it; it was this that I considered necessary, for certain reasons of my own, to set forth in my "Explanation". But, anyway, to continue. Blank Memory: a short story written for the Tiny 'topia Jam. I'll post a comment for anyone who takes part from my profile. Deputized forum mod since the Great Thanksgiving Purge. Do your part and report any suspicious activity. CYStia thanks you for your service, citizen. Albums I'm currently writing to: Ten, Pearl Jam Year Of The Tiger, Myles Kennedy Dirt, Alice In Chains We Are Not Your Kind, Slipknot Facelift, Alice In Chains

Trophies Earned

Earning 100 Points Earning 500 Points Earning 1,000 Points Earning 2,000 Points Having 3 Storygame(s) Featured Rated 74.1% of all Stories Given by EndMaster on 08/30/2020 - For multiple contributions to the site Given by mizal on 03/29/2020 - For silently and sneakily becoming one of the most valuable authors on the site, and being a great reviewer. Given by Will11 on 03/25/2020 - For your excellent stories, positive attitude and dedication to writing :)


Strength of body, strength of will. Both are required. A man's freedom depends on his willingness to act, to rise against those who would place him in chains. Small choices add up, building towards differing outcomes. In the moment, one does not often know the implications of his actions. Inevitably, all is revealed. Author's Note: There are several "cinematic" links in the story. You will have the option to view multiple events happening simultaneously. While not adding to the branching, they do offer deeper insight into the story.

Pitka's Fables

Hello. It's me, Pitka ("Ninja" to my friends), your morality guide. Together, we will embark on a journey filled with lessons on life and ethical behavior, while having fun along the way, of course!

I've written a series of short fables for your benefit. Come, take my hand as we navigate through life's innermost difficulties.

Author's note:

Entry for Bucky's Year's End Contest.

Sheol's Passage and the Fallen
Thoughts appearing as fragments. A mind shattered. Broken. Weak. One of us. Author's Note: Official endings will be titled "Epilogue." There are seven total to discover.

Sterling City
She offers everything a man could want. Sterling City, an unsteady lover, but a lover nonetheless, filled with gunfire, liberal women, and elevator dings! One day her embrace is warm, and the next, it's the cold shoulder and couch for you, baby. Best to get out while the going's good. Author's Note: Contest entry for IWT 13: The Resurrection.

Sterling Suburbs
It's the 'burbs, baby. Wipe that city grime off on the door mat. You know what, why don't you just remove those filthy shoes entirely. She's calm, collected, and safe. Sterling Suburbs, nothing like her erratic sister, filled with carpool lines, trick or treaters, and a steady supply of Budweiser. Author's Note: Written for Mara's Halloween Writing Jam. A small-sized, suburb-dwelling Sterling City spin-off!

The Book and Devil's Altar
A new day. The chance to move on. Weigh the options, then commit. Whether you choose right or wrong, the journey begins by taking a step forward. The Hunter, a man marked by tragedy, plagued by the internal voice. His past appears as phantoms, seeking to claim his soul. The Sorceress, places little value on the lives of men. Humanity is but an obstacle on her rise to power. The Warrior, built by honor. Straightforward in battle, straightforward in thought. The Rogue, unable to leave behind what isn't his. Some artifacts are best left as they are. The Book, a tome of black magic. Ancient curses rest in its pages, longing to be read. Author's note: There are six official endings to discover, two of which have characters crossing over from Sheol's Passage and the Fallen. Entry for EndMaster's Edgelord Contest 2.

The King's Command

The Providence of Kria consists of two major nations: The Kingdom of Brelia and the tribal territory of Rath. The ten-year peace between Brelia and Rath is quickly unraveling. In attempt to prevent another war, heir to the throne of Brelia, Prince Urijah, is sent on a diplomatic mission to appeal to the Rathans. In your older brother's absence, the burden of defending the kingdom falls to you. Your choices will determine the fate of the kingdom.

Runner-up for Corgi's Unofficial Contest: The Lords of the Land.

9/1/19 Update: Corrected a few punctuation errors

Featured Story The Sanguine and Blackbeard's Cutlass
Taking place during the Golden Age of Piracy, assume command of The Sanguine as you plunder and search for treasure in the profitable Caribbean. In this swashbuckling fantasy, you embark on a dangerous quest to an ancient Aztec civilization. Peril lies behind every tree, stone, and indigenous spear.

Author's note:

The story adds fantasy elements to events occurring in the 1700s. There are many real life characters and places in the story. Many are factually accurate, and many are not. I highly encourage you to research the people, places, and deities after reading.

Entry for Gower's Battle in the Ruins of a Dead Civilization contest.

Featured Story Twin Arrows

1852 - The Territory of New Mexico

The hunt has taken me to to the outer edges of civilization. Out here, lawlessness abides. There are no godly folk. Only heathen. The inner demon in me can relate to the call of anarchy. No rules, being bound by nothing; it sounds like freedom. In the end, that "freedom" is simply the self-indulgent, care-free living that is a poison upon humanity. If killing a man will save society from the infection of lawlessness, then I will gladly do what is necessary.

You eye the journal at your lap. The freshly written ink expands and bleeds to the perfect width of the quill. Satisfied that it won't smear, you shut the book and toss it aside. The meager fire at your feet does little to warm your body, but its original use was already completed. The frail, thin-boned squirrel did little to satisfy your hunger. Still, it would keep you alive until the next meal. You pull the leather waterskin from your pack to gauge how much longer it would last. With a gentle shake, you estimate it'll last a couple more days with strict rationing.

The road is lonely. In a former life, you dreamed about wandering the world without any responsibility or burdens. The reality of the road's harsh living conditions were nothing like the trigger-happy romanticized versions of the lawless west. Here there are no home-cooked meals, no warm body to lie next to yours. It's only you and the necessary task. Someone had to die.

You gaze up at the night sky. It seemed foreign at first. Without city lights to disorient the constellations, it looked like an entirely new sky. If you traveled at a good pace, you'd reach Canyon Diablo by midday. You pull the bone-carved pipe from your pack and light a match against the sole of your foot. You lie down on your bedroll, breathe in the relaxing tobacco, and drift off to sleep...

Author's Note:

The Wild West is a dangerous place. Be sure to make good use of that "back" button. I've hidden three achievements throughout the story. Yes, your total score will show if you've discovered them or not. The highest score possible is an 8/8.

Point Breakdown:
Achievements: 1 point each
Epilogue: 5 points

Entry for mizal's Lone Hero contest.

8/28/19 Update: Fixed the symbols appearing in the description

Featured Story Unbroken
There is no escaping our nature. It simply exists. The voice within me, the one that causes me to commit terrible deeds, burns a low ember. Still, it remains, always present, always looking for fuel to burn. It wants to escape. I feel its lust. It wants to devour. This day is no different. I must battle the darkness within. Author's note: In various sections, you will be given the option to view a simultaneous event happening in the story. While not directly affecting you, the reader's path, they may create a more cinematic feel to the story. Originally written as the last page for Sixteen Words, I hope you enjoy my full adaptation of Contemplation.

Articles Written

Embracing the Writing Process
So you want to be a writer, huh? It ain't easy, kid.

Recent Posts

EndMaster’s Edgelord Contest 2: Grimdark Boogaloo on 1/13/2021 7:55:51 AM
If it's done, it's done. No need to drag out completed work or add words for the sake of word count.

EndMaster’s Edgelord Contest 2: Grimdark Boogaloo on 1/11/2021 7:57:32 AM
Here's the link to mine.

EndMaster’s Edgelord Contest 2: Grimdark Boogaloo on 1/9/2021 2:19:15 PM
I see you're a week ahead of schedule.

Happy New Years! on 1/5/2021 5:59:55 PM
As much as I'd like to support my fellow CYStian, I think I'll sit this one out.

Happy New Years! on 1/4/2021 5:18:15 PM
What's the book about?

EndMaster’s Edgelord Contest 2: Grimdark Boogaloo on 12/27/2020 1:46:43 AM
I started some video games. Thanks for asking. Have you started yet?

IFDB Outpost on 12/27/2020 12:14:08 AM
Homie you got an open italics bracket on your profile

Fallout fanfic aka a fresh steamy brahmin pile on 12/26/2020 12:56:07 AM
I was looking through old Word documents saved on my computer from ages ago. After skimming through a fun title called "Dear Future Self," I found the first thing I ever wrote, schoolwork aside. I remember the experience well. The party life wasn't quite cutting it. All my friends were in the business of slamming down peach vodka and chasing it with equally sweet juice, which would have justifiably garnered several jokes of the homosexual nature if not for spraying their seed all over campus sl00ts like a god damn pressure washer during their nightly escapades. No way. I was going to be better than those fools. I was going to do something meaningful with my life and write Fallout fanfic. LOL. Thank our lord and savior on this day of his birth that I didn't join the site then. --- The air around him hung heavy with smoke as he pushed the remainder of his caps into the center of the table. The two players around him smirked, one human and one ghoul, as they had been first-hand witnesses to the luck he possessed that night. Luck always seemed to be on his side, but something was different this night. Something was off. The dim lit tavern was filled with shady characters. Since the bombs fell, formal law was rare. Anyone who was brave enough to wear a badge usually ended up with a bullet in his back. “All in”, the Stranger spoke in a calm, but confidant voice as he eyed the ghoul sitting to his right. The man to angrily threw down his cards on the table signaling he folds. “I’ll call that bluff”, the pudgy kid to his left said as he pushed his stack of caps into the pot matching the stranger. No one knew who he was, but it wasn’t hard to figure out he came from wealth as he tossed caps around carelessly. The Stranger fingered the brim of his Militia Hat, covering the majority of his facial features. The minuscule section of his face that remained visible displayed a thick, but well kept dark beard, as well as long, black hair that was a result of wandering the Wasteland. “Are you sure, Kid? Wouldn’t want to anger your Father by taking all your allowance.” “Just shut up and show your hand,” the spoiled Kid answered. As the Stranger slowly revealed his hand, card by card, the pudgy Kid’s eyes widened, as he knew he had been beat. For the first time that night luck had been on the Stranger’s side. The kid screamed, “You cheated!” as he was not used to things not going his way. Spit flew out of his mouth as he threw a tantrum. His fists slammed on the table rocking the caps in the air as the Stranger reached towards them. Rage filled his eyes as he attempted to stop the Stranger from taking the caps. In the blink of an eye, the Stranger grabbed the Kid’s wrist twisting it downward, forcing his whole body to collapse on the table otherwise risking a broken arm. The tavern stood quiet and still. The spoiled Kid was a regular and no one dared cross him because they knew the resources he had at his disposal. Not a second later, two figures emerged from the shadows, and with a deafening click pointed their revolvers at the Stranger holding the spoiled Kid to the table. Time stood still. The Stranger took in his surrounding with incredible precision. He analyzed how the Figures held their pistols. He would know, almost before they knew themselves, the moment the bullets would fire. “You just made a big mistake, Mister”, the closest figured spoke in a low, graspy voice as he walked toward the table. The shadowy Figure’s arm tensed signaling to the Stranger bullets were about to fly. With a flip of the wrist, the Stranger put pressure on the spoiled Kid tossing his body between him and the two figures. The first bullet slammed into his chest knocking the Kid’s body out of the Stranger’s grip. The second whirled past the Stranger as he rolled to the right. Mid roll, two laser pistols appeared from within the long overcoat of the Stranger. With a deep hum, two beams of blinding red light lit up the Tavern, hurled from the low posture of the Stranger. The smoke in the tavern radiated a red glow from the lasers. One beam struck the figure that spoke slicing his arm clean off from the elbow down, his blood contributing to the redness of the Tavern. --- Mmm. So great. If only it fit the current contest theme, I could make an entry out of this great green jewel of a story. I wrote that sitting at a pizza place late at night, nursing a few cold ones. I was sitting alone in a booth, empty glasses next to my laptop, near the back of the joint of course--I didn't want anyone to view my screen and plagiarize the fanfic to rule them all. Strangely enough, some random dude took the otherside of the booth was I was a few paragraphs in. After sucking my dick orally (1. by means of speech; verbally.), saying something along the lines of "everyone's out partying, while you're working--you must be highly successful with a work ethic such as yours," he randomly asked to crash at my place. Now even though I'm writing this intentionally gay for the lolz, I wasn't getting a gay vibe from the dude. Obviously I told the fucker no. If that wasn't enough, I told him I was busy writing Fallout fanfic, and that he shouldn't mess with one so badass. Either because he was intimidated or knew that it's best to not associate with fanfic writers, he left me in peace. Which brings us to today. Christmas motha fuckin' Day. Here, three years after dropping a steamy Brahmin pile in the form of fan fiction, I leave you with a quick rewrite of the original scene, the one that started it all, the one that staved off a potential rapist. If it feels like the literary equivalent of getting coal in your stocking, good. That's what I'm going for. Merry Christmas, my talented fucktards. --- Heavy smoke hung in the air of the tavern. The patrons inside didn’t seem to mind it. It sure as hell was easier to breathe than the air outside, a byproduct of the big ol’ bombs. Before the war, people hung their hats as they walked into an establishment such as this one. Now, they simply removed their gas masks. Blackjack. Not even atomic bombs could stop the game from being played. The world was nuked to hell, and men still gambled whatever was used for currency. That came in the form of bottle caps nowadays, a handful being more valuable than a stack of American benjamins. Green felt lined the poker table, ripped in more places than one, a nice distraction from a few questionable stains. Four players sat, eyeing one another. Three men and a ghoul, not unlike the beginning to an unsavory joke. “All in,” the Stranger spoke in a raspy whisper. Not that his voice wasn’t filled with strength. Rather, it was just the right amount of volume, scarred by ancestors of his cigarillo, which puffed out a consistent stream of smoke with his words. To the Stranger’s left sat a pudgy kid on the verge of manhood. His face wore inexperience along with more than a few red dots of testament to his youth. “I’ll call your bluff,” the kid answered, joining his stack of caps with the Stranger’s. The ghoul folded. As did the remaining man at the table, one with an incredible plain face which held no defining traits of their own. The Stranger’s fingers touched the brim of his Militia hat, adjusting it ever so slightly to glance at the table better, his face remaining shrouded by its shadow, amplified by the heavy smoke in the air. If uncovered, the gamblers would see a man with a dark beard. It could be cleanly-shaved in the morning and still make an appearance by the evening. “You sure you want to do that, kid?” the Stranger asked. “I’m just passing through these parts, and leaving with heavy pockets would only slow me down.” Pudgy cheeks turned towards the Stranger. “Then why gamble such a large amount?” White teeth shine underneath the Militia Hat’s brim, contrasting the shadow. “Because it’s damn fun. And whiskey ain’t free.” “Just shut up and show your hand,” the youth answered, a slight voice-crack inflection nearly accompanying. “Obliged,” the Stranger said, revealing his cards, a straight flush against the kid’s two pair. They’re aces, but still not a winning hand. “You cheated!” the kid yelled, motioning to prevent the Stranger from taking his caps from the table. In response, the Stranger grabbed the kid’s wrist with one hand and drew his laser pistol with the other. Instead of an armful of caps, the kid was met with a face full of pistol. “Now, now. Let’s not get hasty,” the Stranger rasped, finger on the trigger. “These are mine. And I’m sure as hell not in the charity business.” “Are you brain dead? Do you know who my father is?” the youth spat. The other gamblers kindly removed themselves from the table, obviously knowing who the kid’s father is. “You’re a dead man for laying a hand on me.” “Nothing I ain’t heard before. And nothing I probably won’t hear again,” the Stranger said, narrowing his eyes on the crowded tavern. Movement. Two figures, reaching into their inner jackets. Bodyguards of the kid. Babysitters, in reality. Armed ones at that. Red beams of light filled the tavern. Two shots fired by the Stranger hit their mark, not fatal by any means, but enough to drop both assailants. The Stranger wasn’t hired to shoot them dead. You know what they say about being good at something. Senses high, hat brim low, the Stranger scanned the tavern a second time. Its inhabitants were in an uproar, rushing to escape the gunfight, collecting whatever caps they could on the way out. No one else seemed to be drawing a weapon. The Stranger returned his attention to the youth. “You might not know it, but today’s the luckiest god damn day of your life.” He slammed the butt of his pistol against the kid’s nose, sending a spray of red into the air. Its shade is of a darker red than the energy cells just fired. With a forefinger and thumb, the Stranger pulled the cigarillo from the corner of his lips, adding to the tavern a final time, breathing in the smoke while he could. Where he’s headed, the air won’t be as fresh.

EndMaster’s Edgelord Contest 2: Grimdark Boogaloo on 12/24/2020 9:24:24 PM
Damn it. Well, now I must rethink my strategy. There's no point in publishing early if you're not first.

Hatter's Sketchbook II on 12/24/2020 11:07:53 AM
This is so great. I wish I had a hard copy to read to my daughter as a festive bedtime story. You work on publishing it, and I'll handle impregnating someone. Ready? Break!