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Atlas Anniversary Art & Writing Contest

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Around this time last year, we made the transition from Axios to Atlas and to commemorate that and to make it look like I’m doing something, here’s a contest!!1!!!!!1!


Following on with the ideals of our previous contest in that we’re trying to make these more relevant to the LotC universe, the theme of this contest is locations in Atlas. You can interpret that in aaaaany way you like, so like as your entry is even remotely related to any particular location on Atlas. I’ve included a full list of all Atlas’ regions below, but you can be much more specific in the location you chose (so long as you title it in your entry).



  • To enter, post on this thread with either your art or writing (no word limit)
  • State clearly the region/place your entry is based off in the title or at the start (full list of regions below)
  • All entries must be original
  • Writing and art entries will be judged as separate categories with 1st. 2nd, and 3rd place prizes available for both categories
  • You're free to enter both categories
  • All entries must be submitted by midnight EST on Sunday the 13th of January
  • The location only has to be a basic inspiration for your entry



LIST OF MAIN ATLAS REGIONS (Nation Tiles & Event Regions)

  • The Springhills
  • The Southdowns
  • The Sleetfells
  • The Swaymoors
  • Huckery Highlands
  • The Wonkawoods
  • The Bolemounds
  • The Frozenpines
  • The Loftywoods
  • Shrieking Drake Island
  • The Chalk Alps
  • The Timberwoods
  • The Yatl Wasteland
  • The Mixed Knolls



  • The Twin Highlands
  • The Pridelands
  • The Barrowdowns
  • Eastbight
  • Tide Isle
  • The Lobster Isles
  • The Gules Mountains
  • The Lochmoors
  • Hiisht Isle
  • Coral Peak
  • The Serpentwoods
  • The Jade Peaks
  • The Wilderlands


If you know a good spot but don’t know it’s name, all you have to do is head over there and type /rg info to find out. Remember that the location only has to be basic inspiration for your entry -- you could write about a whole fight scene that has no real relevance to the region other than that it occurred there, for example.



  1. 5,000 Mina | Creative Wizard Tag | A Parrot | A signed item related to the location of your entry
  2. 3,000 Mina | A Parrot | A signed item related to the location of your entry
  3. 2,000 Mina | A signed item related to the location of your entry


Unlike last time it’s a little bit unfeasible to include a screenshot of every prize items, but I’ll post a few below to give you an idea:
















So that’s just a flavour, bearing in mind that each region has its own item, and some of them might be subject to change depending on lore reasons.


A quick question, though – is there anyone out there that fancies themselves a bit of composer? It was suggested to me that it might be worthwhile opening up a music category in future competitions, so if your skills are more in that department, post here to let me know how many people could compete in that category.


While this is also the anniversary of LotC 6.0, it’s also nearly been a full year since I became ET Director (yikes). In light of that, December’s actually going to be my last month as Director before I hand it off to someone who can do a better job after burnout’s gotten the better of me since college started back up (I’ll remain on the ET, just not as bossman).


With that said, best of luck with your entries, looking forward to seeing them.


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Art Entry: The Pridelands (Updated)

p trash and weird pixel art but it was fun to do




Old Entry:




Writing Entry: The Swaymoors



The Aspects put him on earth for this. To stand proudly white, a maw red and dripping, dealing death with every bite. They hacked at him front and back, but their swords may have been feathers for all the harm it did the beast. No blade could catch his hide, nor did he give foes time to match his agility. Let three men assail him, with beasts or blades or both it made not matter. He tore at them all, their trusted steel surprisingly unfaithful when met by the quadruped. As each of the unwelcome fell, its wroth met the next.


She brushed auburn locks from her face as emerald eyes stared down an aquiline nose, through the branches and brandles, spying the scene from her steadfast wooden perch. Alemendria pocketed the flax-bound book, shimmying down the tree and hurrying home: a decision most unwise with a tempered wolf roaming. The young teenager slammed the wooden door shut, rattling the apothecary cupboard sat beside, and moreso the floor as she bound to her candle-lit room, resigning to confined reading.


Alemandria!” called eloquently a powerful, feminine voice, her mother. To which the young ‘scholar’ ignored, affording her a loud screeech! As her door swung open and her mother dressed appropriately in a long, lithe and graceful, a pearl-white silk dress with tea-green satin linings and a crown of living roots, emerald jewels entwined within like flies caught in a spider’s web.
“You are my daughter, you will attend this. Put your book down,” the Priestess stalked forward, elongating a delicate, pale hand to forcibly do as she commanded herself.
“Leave me alone, *****.” hissed the young woman, the book slipping from her grasp, her page lost to the many others.
The older woman decidedly ignored the trailing choice word, taking a calmer route,
“You are yet to see the path you are fated to, dear,” the wooden bed groans softly under as she takes a seat beside her daughter, a hand extending to Alemandria’s pale knee “You are the daughter of two Archdruii… You do not have to speak, merely watch.”
“I am busy.” she replies with barely more than a whisper.
“With what?”
“By the Aspects!” she shrieks, her fingers now claws, clinging into Alem’s thigh.
“Stop, stop!” her words on the verge of sobs as her eyes line with salty tears, an arm flying towards her mother’s wrist.

“Get your head out of your books. You’re a druid, not a child.” the Archdruid scolds, standing. Her posture refined and proud, a facade for her ever-approaching age. She stalks out of the room in long, brisk strides, hovering at the frail door frame to shoot her daughter a glance, “Fortunate your father is not here. You are a disappointment.”


‘You are a disappointment. You are a disappointment. You are a disappointment.’ the three words echoed through her head, reverberating like a loud obnoxious bell, unable to be ignored. Tears welled, and were soon brushed away. She would not cry, she told herself as she forced step after step into her chaotic, yet somehow elegant, flee into nature. Hours passed in a blurr as did the forest, the young woman in a trance of anger, lamentation, shame that fuelled her. She found herself collapsed in a cave masked by thick vines, decorated within by a floral anatomy; flowers and fungus, mushrooms and grass alike, roots and shrubs and trees and beetles and bugs. It was truly amazing, lit only faintly by a crystal-clear moat guarded starlight monacrie. The stuff of fairytales she thought, I must be in one.. How else could I have gotten here?


She was not a druid. She smiled, knowing that as she tread through nature, eyes glowing a vibrant green and nature singing to her. She was like a druid, but she did not serve nature. She was not a servant of nature, nor a friend, she just lived with it happily. Alemandria had run from the Timberwoods to the border of the Forkwoods and Swaymoors, though she preferred the latter. The swamp shimmered gently all about the girl, mottled in half a hundred hues. The mud was such a dark brown it appeared almost black, but there were havens of yellow sand as well, prospering mushrooms both brown and red, and jumbles of black and green seaweed. It was beautiful in its own reserved, misunderstood, brown… ways. The trees were gowned in various greens, a beautiful image juxtaposed against the towering red-and-white shrooms. She oft wandered through the mud and water, finding swamp herbs and flora for food or beauty. This day was one like no other, however. A white blurr flashed past the corner of her eye, the woman dismissing it calmly. She never saw a soul in the swamp. This was no ordinary soul. It tapped on her shoulder as she was foraging, the hunched woman falling in sudden shock, looking up to the stark-naked woman above her. She was beautiful. Her features soft, yet sharp, calm yet aware. Her eyes a flaring aqua and hair a sea of stunning brown.
“I am so sorry!” she exclaimed with genuine concern, extending an ivory hand to assist Alemandria from the mud. The pseudo-druid accepted, silent and simply staring.
“I am Her.” the somewhat solidly built, dark woman introduces with a smile as bright as the sun, her hand still clasped around Alem’s.
Her?” the other one replies with barely more than a whisper.
“My name. What is yours?”
“Alemandria. Alem for short. What are you-” she stops to giggle,
“What are you-” Her having begun to ask the same question in unison too giggles…


The two met under a tree with a welcoming kiss and physical embrace, settling against the trunk. Her seemed shook and anxious, and struggled to mask it.
“Is something amiss?” her… friend? Special someone? Whatever you would call Alemandria, asked.

“Indeed… I have something to tell you.” tears well in her eyes, already.

“Anything.” Alemandria reassured.
“I am… not what you think I am. I am not a Descendant…” the woman begins.
“I am a Spirit, Alemandria. A spirit of nature.” Alem flinches within their close embrace, her green eyes widening.
“Of the Aspects..?”
“Of Freygoth.”
“The Spirit of Nature.”
“The… orcish…”
“Yes” the Lesser Spirit interjects.
“You’re real?” Alem’s breathing quickens, and she loosens from the embrace.
“I am.” Her whispers, reaching for the other girl. Alem would not let her touch her again, standing as he avoids the Spirit’s touch.
“I need… some time.”


Whether they’d been dating weeks, or months, or years, Alemandria was unsure. She reflected on what it was coming to, though, as she returned after three days, seeking her. Sure enough, she found Her by the same tree.
“I need to show you.. Something. I am sorry.” Alem apologises, reaching to take Her’s hand and whisk her away to her cave. Alem’s eyes were lit with a light akin to the Spirit’s; the energy of nature within both. They ducked through the clingey vines as they made their way into the respite. Alem broke free, taking a step away. Her was silent, anxious for her friend. She had not seen her face till now, the tears that ran down Alem’s pale, shamed visage. It took her a moment to realise why. Roots snaked over her feet, her ankles, her legs, climbing up her physique as Alem drew from her boot a sliver of steel.
“Alemandria…” the Spirit begged as the roots reached her chest, eyes flickering and flaring. She should have control. She was a spirit of nature. Why didn’t she have control?
“They are greater. They showed me to you as a test…” she moved forward to the incapacitated spirit, weeping fully now, “I am sorry… I am sorry… I am so sorry…”
“It is is okay. It is. Just tell meeh-” Alemandria gave her no time to speak, herself no time to doubt. The silver flashed across the woman’s neck with a spray of blood, the root cocoon instantly rescinding into the floor, as did the Druid’s buckling knees. She fell with the body of her love.

“Aspects, I am yours.” The true Druid whispers.

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I may do some stuff with music for this contest if allowed. Either solo composition or including others.

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      The Firelands had never really treated him well. It wasn’t uncommon to fight a bloodthirsty beast or a naturality of the bursting flames erupting from the ground. It had it’s beauty, though. To him, atleast, the darkened, charred peaks, the magma-riddled ground and the few spots he could set foot and walk in that wasteland, free of the danger of maddened adventurers chasing riches in some unknown region. This one was well known. No man, sane or crazy, would dare adventure there. It was suicide. Not for him.. He knew his way. ‘The land of the Spirits’, some of his brothers said. Truly, only the Spirits could be capable of creating that beauty. No one else, nothing else.

       It was harsh to walk around in the burning heat. He was a mere goblin, nothing close to the might of the Firelands, encumbering him with the weight of dominance, roaring out it’s embers in a desperate attempt to consume the descendant of Krug. He wouldn’t fret. No. Not now. He had come this far, on his blind journey of self-knowledge. His name, his faith in his brothers, his willpower... How had he kept it all, through all his nation had gone through. The questions hit him like the battering ram hits the gate. He was out there, seeking reason, seeking source, seeking ‘why’. He knew that he’d probably find nothing, but trying had never killed anyone, he told himself. How naïve. He was in no place to question the will of the Spirits, though, as they drove him into this periodical peregrination. “Leydluk’s doing this...” he thought to himself everyday he woke up, thinking of the past Rex as inspirations to continue pummeling through the obstacles of the Firelands

       Why, though? Why must he submit himself to the heat, the pain, the harshness? Only because he had a dream? Because ‘the Spirits told him so’? No. He couldn’t dare let those thoughts take over. He couldn’t give up. Not now. It kept hitting the back of his head, though. How could he keep the battering ram? His gates where weak. His will wasn’t the strongest. Broken, shattered. Why? He didn’t know. He felt as if he had nothing to grasp, yet everything at his reach. He felt emptyness. “I could be the strongest, wisest Goblin in history... or I can go down as a no-one...” he thought to himself. He stood there, atop a piece of stone, covered by magma rocks and other stones in his view, for him to step onto and continue his trek. 
       “This... this is...” he stopped, sitting down on the fumeled rock, ignoring the pain the heat was inflicting him. It was hard to do that, but... He had to. He had to focus. He eyed out into the rest of the fiery wasteland. How come such destructive beauty existed? A perfect creation of deities beyond his comprehension, his understandement. He wanted to understand, but he couldn’t figure out how. He reckoned shamans did, but even then, they had doubts aswell. All the corners of the Goblin’s mind scrambled hastily for an answer to an unknown question. A constant doubt. A constant doubt as to if he was going to see the end of the day, if the so-craved Stargush’Stroh wasn’t just around the corner. He was honorable, or, atleast tried to.

        “My name...” he thought. His name. A mockery to his stature. A mockery to him, cast upon by ungrateful fathers. Ungrateful... How could them? How could they know? They wouldn’t know he’d eventually turn into something half-decent, worth of minimal recognition. He wouldn’t have that pitiful name no more. No. A imposing one. One that cause fear, was what he needed. Despite his height, whatever he looked like, one that imposed authority was what he needed. The first and only thing that came to his mind struck him and sticked to him. It stuck to him for sure. Morgoth. Yes. That was the one. He scrambled back up to his feet, gathering his packed goods and provisions and promptly setting off, back to the camp. All would hear of the Grubgoth’s name. All would hear of Morgoth’Raguk’s name. All would.



I write fast, don’t judge me.

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 my commission list terrible rn I hate this timin 😔

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The 7th of Sun’s Smile 1626,


To the High Prince Loriens Silma and most esteemed Praetor Kairn Ithelanen of the Dominion:


I write this letter with the utmost urgency.  My last two have fallen upon deaf ears, but I implore you to send a scouting party to the edge of the Loftywoods on the far border of the Dominion.  From high in the castle, I hear it—I hear them.  Opulent and debaucherous, a group of elves and men and former elves and men lording in the mountains below the bridge, I’ve seen them. 


I warn my noble lords that what I share from this moment onward with you should not trouble the faint, female heart and those of weak constitution, praise be Aspects any who should have to recount what I tell them:  undead lodge themselves above our most venerable woods.  This past day I ran into a child, or what I had thought to be one.  He was alone, and having approached him along the narrow bridge into the Dominion’s territory I simply wished no more than to save him from his abandonment.  As he turned to face me, I could hear the croaking and groaning, a cacophonous forboding I could not stop when I witnessed the rotten, maggot-ridden face, sickly and egregiously damning all semblance of order.  Much to my dismay, it spoke in a gurgling language that no mortal dare to know, and that all mortals dare not to know.  Repeating such words now—I cannot fathom, and I wish not the horror and tempestuous, restless sleep on my respected lords. 


I beg thee, aide, aide for your people!




--, a faithful steward



21st of the Eve of the Deep Cold, 1627,


To the High Prince Loriens Silma and most esteemed Praetor Kairn Ithelanen of the Dominion:


The dead, the dead have risen, my lords!  They roam the streets, the roam the roads.  Damnable, I fear telling this so boldly and without warning would damage my reputation, but I cannot bear the burden any longer.  Please, my lords, send us aide.

Just this week, I encountered a man clad in black robes, he had a face paler than the softest shade of moonlight.  His smell was one of corpses and graveyards, a breath that reeked of cankerous, rotten flesh, but I knew him for the devil he was when I saw his corpse-stricken eyes, a dastardly dark mage if I had ever saw one.  I drew my dirk on him and he shied away from me before I ran back to the sanctity of the Cloud Temple, and, as though in the corner of my eye, any sane man would swear he saw a corpse in the brush but I deign to say for certain.


My lords, I beseech thee to aide thy citizens, my wife and child live here.


--, a faithful steward



24th of the Amber Cold, 1628,


To the High Prince Loriens Silma and most esteemed Praetor Kairn Ithelanen of the Dominion:


My wife is survived by myself and our daughter, I fear she—nay, I know it well—that she has met the insidious necromancer who roams our borders along the mountainside.  Along those winding roads and cabals of towering trees, there is no sunlight here—and if there was, nevermore will my sun rise again.  If only I was there, I could have saved her.  I recount my trip to Cloud Temple, offering the monks a tribute of thanks, and being halted on the road, alone, and wish my wife’s fate on no man or woman alive.


The only will to live I have is my daughter, and I write this with the same urgency as my last two queries to your most noble house: please, my lords, send us help.


--, your steward




16th of the First Seed, 1629,


May you all rot in the foulest hells of Ebritaes:


Thrice before, I had sent my requests to the Lords of the Dominion, and thrice after I have gone unanswered.  I send this message alongside the corpse of my daughter to the city of the Dominion, where my fellow citizens may gaze upon your failures.


Mauled, murdered, molested, and mangled—she did not deserve this, to be strangled and mutilated in a pool of her own blood before the dark things of the mountains left half of her flesh unscathed, all, so I imagine, to remind me of my place.  I curse the Aspects, I curse these forsaken Loftywoods, I curse the dark magi and their deplorable minions, but most of all my lords: I curse all of thee with every stain of darkness and malice in my heart. 


When you gaze into the rotting eye of my innocent babe, I bid you know her name: --. I bid you gaze at what those undead demons did to her with ravenous fangs and rotting, yellowed nails.  I bid you realize your mistakes, and that in the darkest scorn of perdition you suffer for eternity for what you have done. 


To my fellow citizens: I ask of all of thee to never tread in these foulest woods alone, lest you suffer my fate.  I write this as my last, and now as the limitless reach of the dark-mongering and most malevolent corpse-men, I shall seek with my crossbow oblivion as my only reprieve from the torment of these woods.




Edited by Dardonas
posted before midnight

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By the power invested in me, I do dub this comment a:


For the Loftywoods

Edited by ThatGuy_777

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- Reserved for The Lobster Isles Entry -

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Place holder: Firelands

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Other artists, please dont enter so I can win by default 😞

Official Entry:


Peaceful morning

Other Color pallets:






Magic and Mystery



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Placeholder for my entry

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