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[Concurso] Relatos de los supervivientes

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Una vez al año se escuchan risas misteriosas durante la noche.

A todos aquellos que llevan mucho tiempo perdidos en Wasteland

Ve y encuéntralos.

No, no quedará ninguno. Se asentará el polvo en las carreteras.

Nadie que hubiera intentado escapar de ella,

Podría alguna vez irse.

Durante mucho tiempo la Bruja permaneció incrédula. Riendo, tentando a su destino.

Pero una vez que se había perdido pudo ver de forma clara

Y se vistió de oscuridad.
Condiciones del concurso:

  • Crea una breve historia o poema de terror de no más de 1.000 caracteres, incluyendo espacios.
  • Publícalo en tu página personal de Facebook o VK incluyendo el hashtag #crossout13, o en este hilo del foro.
  • La historia puede estar acompañada de una captura de pantalla del juego, una imagen, una imagen GIF animada. Puedes usar editores de imágenes. ¡Pero la imagen tiene que haber sido creada por tí!
  • La historia debe contener algún tema, característica o cualquier otro elemento que apunte al universo del mundo de Crossout.
  • Estilísticamente, la historia puede ser cualquier cosa (divertida, triste, aterradora, etc.), pero sin dejar de lado el espíritu de Halloween/Día de los Muertos.
  • Pueden participar tanto jugadores de PC como PS4 y Xbox One.
  • El trabajo no debe contener lenguaje ofensivo y símbolos nazis, referencias a grupos y sociedades prohibidas, así como elementos de contenido erótico.
  • Cada participante solo puede presentar una obra a la competición.
  • Serán excluidos del concurso aquellos jugadores que publiquen el trabajo de otra persona.
  • Al participar en el concurso, da su permiso para usar sus obras a nuestra discreción.


  • 8 participantes seleccionados al azar recibirán 500 coins cada uno. ¡Lee atentamente todos los términos del concurso!
  • Se entregarán 4 premios de 1.000 coins a las historias más interesantes según el criterio del jurado.
  • Se premiará con 666 coins al autor de la historia más espeluznante y misteriosa, según el criterio del jurado del concurso.
  • Todos los ganadores también recibirán 7 días de suscripción premium y un pack “Halloween”.
  • ¡Es posible que se den más recompensas fuera de la competición!


  • Inicio: 25.10.2019
  • La admisión de participaciones finaliza: 31.10.2019 a las 20:59 GMT

La deliberación del jurado puede llevar varios días. La distribución de las recompensas se llevará a cabo a lo largo de la semana, contando desde el momento que se ha anunciado los ganadores.
¡Que el espíritu de Halloween te ayude! Simplemente no mires hacia atrás, no te gustaría…

            ¡Debate sobre ello aquí!



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            • 2 weeks later...

            Resultados del concurso “Relatos de los supervivientes”

            Historias de los ganadores elegidos al azar (500 coins):


            When autumn leaves begin to fall,
            The Wastes enveloped in an amber shroud,
            I can't resist this eerie call,
            I leave my oasis and roam about.

            Restless, my thoughts in disarray,
            Unable to escape these dreary dreams,
            The nightmares, driving me insane,
            The shadows chasing me, the bloody screams.

            But there is one that loves me still,
            A welcome guest in these phantasms.
            She is so kind and means no ill,
            Guiding me out of the haunted chasms.

            She comes to me these wakeful nights
            To embrace me with her ivory touch,
            This maiden's name is Orubai.
            Of her topaz eyes I am fond so much!

            In the Ship Graveyard, we are safe.
            We talk, we dance - such bliss! And soon,
            Her smile drives all my fear away,
            Her thousand teeth reflecting the pale moon.

            Fatigued, I lay my head to sleep.
            She hugs me against her marble bosom,
            And I begin to sink, but keep
            Wondering - why this sudden confusion?

            The dream... Was I not just awake?
            But it feels so vivid to my senses!
            To gone to rise, and soon I fade
            Into the darkness, with which I'm blending...


            Cyberg travels the wasteland alone
            but never leaves the memory of his companion Rinder
            his vehicle rumbles and raises dust
            in memory of this day attacked by the gang raider

            They ruled together on this part of the desert
            even looters were afraid of them
            until this race where they trapped them
            everything was planned to bring them misfortune

            Launched at full speed Cyberg did not see the harrow
            and his co-driver and partner of all the challenges
            did not survive when in a roar like thunder
            the lurch ejected her from the cockpit in zero gravity

            And since that day every year on Halloween night
            Cyberg is on the line pressing down hard on the accelerator
            coming back from the dead for one night on Earth
            Rinder returns to his side to take revenge on his attackers


            The Ghost Survivors

             Gather round the campfire survivors and share our spooky Halloween stories. Every night on the 31st of October a wicked air raid like siren awakens off in the distance to remind us of what haunts the wastelands. This siren is from an old chemical factory and is haunted by the ghost survivors reminding us never to cross. These ghosts are a result of toxic chemicals leaking into the factory. The gasses have permanently sealed their hazmat suits shut, condemning them to forever live inside the claustrophobic suits. The suits were not enough to withstand the toxic gasses in the first place meaning that the ghost survivors have been exposed over the wasteland years to the point that they are now the only beings that can safely passthrough it. Eerily, they are not known to eat or sleep, and they have a habit of dragging survivors into the factory. Many believe they do it to stay alive. It is unknown why they carry off their victims in this manner as none have ever lived to tell the story.


            For tonight is his night, and only this night. In the early morning, we won't hear it for a year. The witch awakens the ghosts and invades the whole wasteland enveloping her in a macabre and deadly mist in order to harvest the souls of seasoned pilots to feed on it and give it power. She's hungry! To the rhythm of the twinkling of the stars, the guitars of the mexican mariachis ghosts will be heard accompanied by the shots of projectiles and the cries of the pilots who would have been reckless enough to venture during these night-time fights. A night that will probably be their last. If their weapons are not enough, we will find them next year accompanying witches and ghosts by the moonlight. 


            It all starts as a thought.

            It could be any, really; a stroke of genius, a flub, a new passion. Whatever it may be, its thinker sees it as a deviation from the norm. But unlike others, it’s too cemented. This thought begets another, and another soon after. This shift of the psyche can be quick or slow, but it shifts. Of course, change is noticed, but the new world has that effect, one may suppose. 

            Then the phantasms begin. A whisper where there is none. A figure in the corner of the eye, gone in a blink. Finding one food ration where you were certain there were two. Tricks of the senses, they are dismissed as, and nothing more. 

            But they escalate in number and severity. Both the grandiose and the grotesque play themselves before an audience of you, and you alone. Play along, and you unmask your deterioration. So, many bottle it up until it can be bottled no more, and all that remains is a husk. Their mind gnawed away from the inside until nothing remained.

            Such is the nature of Crossout.


            This time of year is what Ivy calls "Hallows eve" or something. Most of the other survivors call it the Day of the Dead. Some of them make skulls, play guitar, put on uniforms they found or traded for. But that... "Otherkin", the raiders called him. He was different from other folks. When we rescued him, his eyes glowed like a black cat's.

            We ended up freeing him when one of our driver's arm turned into gold trying to restrain him. Neat trick, but a golden arm is only worth a few hundred coins. Maybe enough to buy yourself a sweet from one of the other engineers...

            Anyways, we shook him down before dumping him near the wastes. The only thing he had with him was a bumpy orange sphere, with a face cut into it. Couple of the other guys have started copying it onto our spare balloons and painting it on their cars.

            But honestly? 

            It scares me. 

            The hollowness of its eyes, the stump sticking out the top, the fangs. A head without a body.

            But what kind of driver has no head?

            The one who's coming.


            This story has told to kids at night,
            How this mehanic had a serious fright,
            He started screaming, it started to rain,
            But they all knew for sure,
            That night he was going trough a lot of pain.

            In the morning, he was nowhere to be found,
            His friends started to panic,
            They started to search,
            But couldn't find him, 
            As if he has dissapeared like the Titanic.  

            And so the mystery remains unsolved,
            No one knew who was involved,
            But one says, they heard a deep sound,
            No witnesses are found alive,
            This is the story of the Curse of five,
            There were four people, who heard this event,
            But nobody knows, where they have went.

            Las historias más interesantes según el jurado (1000 coins):


            The thought of his fellow Nomads jeering at Arkady for wasting fuel to retrieve a useless relic was replaced with bittersweet memories as his eyes made out the two skeletons slumped against the wall in the dusk half-light. The larger one gripped the smaller in a final embrace. He inched towards them and dropped to a knee. A teddy bear was gripped tightly in the small skeletal hand.

            As his hand touched the teddy, Arkady eerily sensed something was watching him. Still clutching it, he slowly turned to survey the room. His eyes fell upon something behind him. A few paces away stood the silhouette of a dark, featureless figure. It was a woman. At her side was the outline of a little girl.

            Breathing heavily, Arkady turned back to the skeletons. He released his grip on the teddy and the sensation quickly disappeared. He brought himself to his feet and turned towards the door, stepping past where the silhouettes had been stood as he left the apartment.

            Teddy was exactly where he belonged.


            There once was a man
            Arriving at our camp.
            Looking old, dehumanized,
            hungry and traumatized.

            Tried to warn us
            urgently and agitated.
            Not to meet the same fate
            his village met almost a year ago.

            Told a story about a convoy
            of ghostly and grotesque vehicles.
            Their drivers dead since many years,
            fallen in pointless battles for some cheap gears.

            They would come on 31st
            to obliterate and quench their thirst.
            To get revenge and punish everyone
            who solves problems with his gun.

            Unkillable, invincible and immortal
            since already dead.
            Our only chance was to flee
            or so the old man said.

            We laughed at him and called him mad,
            made the virus responsible for his drivel.
            Cocky we yelled we would destroy that guys
            that were surely just bandits after all.

            What fools we were.


            The dead come out of cemeteries and ghost towns
            They come back to life as if nothing had happened
            They advance like a parade through highways
            Some drive their old cars and motorcycle ectoplasm
            All go from East to West
            For a final party

            When I see how they have fun
            Why do we want to hurt them ?
            Their party was so much more alive than ours
            How can we not appreciate their music ?
            I would like to participate.
            But why am I just a simple human?

            When I saw this skeleton woman,
            my feet walked straight to her
            When my chameleon did not hide me anymore
            Their lighthouses and the flames enlightened me
            I was scared to be put to the post and burned
            As we humans did for them

            But this woman-skeleton smiled at me
            She invited me to dance, and we did
            Then her hand came off her arm
            a black liquid like gasoline came out
            I was afraid she would take away my soul.
            But she laughed and me too.

            Oh Catrina stay with me
            Take me to your country
            It's so good to be with you.


            The sun was going down already when we passed the canyon.

            We’ve been tired from defending our fuel trucks against those raiders, and we all knew which night was about to begin. None of us really believed in the stories, but still we decided to continue our journey back to the hideout the next morning.

            When it was my turn to keep watch, I discovered a ledge allowing me to have a better view. It’s been a long day and I wanted to sit down there for just a moment. Within seconds, I fell asleep.

            A strange feeling woke me up. I looked around, and there it was.

            It almost looked like a human, but still… different.

            It began to run at me. I was filled with fear and desperately tried to grab my gun while we kept staring at each other. It was coming closer, and just before it was too late, I finally got my pistol. The shot’s bang is the last thing I remember before waking up. I was so relieved it was just a dream.

            At least until I noticed the fired bullet, right in front of me and without a scratch.

            La historia más espeluznante y misteriosa según el jurado (666 coins):


            A cursed machine sleeps in the dark corners of the uninhabited wastes. Greater than any Leviathan, the armoured vehicle known as Tyrfing was once feared religiously. Its name is no coincidence, but its origin is not remembered. Countless glowing lights are sometimes seen in the distance by the most desperate survivors. Nomads once searched tirelessly, but it never showed itself to them. But when it is needed, when it could find a new driver, Tyrfing appears. The vehicle has been described differently in every appearance. One thing remains consistent: The many, many lights, like eyes watching the wastes. When a survivor, careless or ignorant, enters the vehicle’s cabin, they are greeted by a special sense of cold. The vehicle’s interior is cold like death, even when taken under the desert sun of the Valley. Tyrfing seals itself like a tomb. The air inside will not last. But the driver does not care. They are driven to take revenge. When nothing else is enough, Tyrfing comes.

            Nos gustaría agradecer a todos los supervivientes por su participación en el concurso. ¡Lo hemos pasado muy bien leyendo vuestras aterradoras, pero cautivadoras, historias!

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