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Battle of the Arts - October

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Greetings fantastic plays of Lord of the Craft,


The Community Team is happy to announce our 8th Battle of the Arts! In case you don’t know, this is our special CT-run event in which we hold a contest for all you creative folk to submit your work! There are six categories: artwork, creative writing/poetry, music, skinning, building, and video editing, and there will be six winners.


The deadline for this contest is October 31st. We’re excited to see your lovely entries! Remember that Battle of the Arts is a tri-monthly contest, so if you don’t enter this month, you can always enter next time!





The theme for October’s Battle of the Arts is Horror!


How to Sign Up

Signing up is easy! In order to participate all you need to do is comment on this post using the following format:




 The winners shall receive a prize of 500 mina for Almaris, a mystery item from the Shop of Wonders, the ‘Creative Wizard’ forum tag, and a unique custom item!



  • All content entered must coincide with the theme of the month.

  • Creative Writing is limited to 1500 words and must have the google document linked to ensure the criteria have been followed (you can still paste the document in the post for all to read easily).

  • You are allowed to submit up to 1 submission per category.

  • Submissions are to be posted in the comment of this thread.






Special thanks to the Community Team for working on this project!

Credit to Armajesty for updating the information.

Credit to snoopie12 for the revisions.

Credit to @reko for the Battle of the Arts art.

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IGN: Qizu
Category: Skin

IGN: Qizu
Category: Art
Artwork: SPArt.png?width=406&height=457

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Hello, everyone! I am stepping in to make a change. Winners will receive a 500 mina voucher for Almaris. This is happening because of the drastic change in the value of mina next map. I promise you that this 500 mina in Almaris is just as valuable as 2.5k in Arcas. 🙂 

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IGN: Sorcerio

Category: Creative Writing





Warning: may contain sensitive topics.





London, 1890


Dark and gloomy was the night, a looming overcast engulfing the heavens above Londontown, yet not still, for they were ushered by the whistling wind upon that second October Eve. Many had already retired for the night, and I had begun to make my own way home, for even in this civil age, many unsavoury things still lurked those dark street corners and shadowy alleyways. In fact, for the past several months, I’d heard many frightful accounts of some unnamed man roaming the streets of London at night, some depraved vagrant who met the bosom of numerous unsuspicious women with that of steel knives and surgical instruments—a tale that made one’s spine shiver at the mere thought. Still, that remained far off in Whitechapel, and I certainly had no business there, so I made little of it.


Alas, it was then that my mind lept to the thought of my beloved, my cherished Margaret, who had gone to stay with her parents upon the East end of the city. Regrettably, we had gotten into some altercation only nights before, and she thought it was best that she take some time to herself, at which I had agreed. My heart sank at the notion, and my woe nearly consumed me as I came upon my dwelling—a looming shell of hard brick and masonry, indistinguishable from the incessant line of apartments which strung themselves along the road for what seemed as miles. 


Bearing my keys, I looked to the ligneous window frames, and there I saw what led me to a rush of panic and heat; a lingering light which seemed to crackle from around one of the corners of the room. In hindsight, it would have been better to seek aid from the constable and his force, but my curiosity had already overtaken me. It was then that I moved to unlock the door, some soft clicks were heard from the lock, at which I froze for a good moment to ensure I had not been noticed by whatever intruder lay within.


Then, I drew the door with a slow creak, warily creeping upon the threshold as my boots met the coarse shag carpet, I listened quietly as to permit not a single sound which may stir the tresspasser’s alarm. Then, offering a few silent prayers, I made my way into the hallway wherein the light flickered, every inch feeling as if it were a mile, my brow lined with sweat as an anxious heat rose within me. Now reaching the end of the hall, I spied through the door frame—and what I saw led my heart to leap not from terror, but instead joy.


It was my precious Margaret, standing there within the center of the room, donning a simple ebony blouse and black skirt. The dim light of the parlor reflected off her features, muted and frail, perhaps worn—in comparison to her more colored, soft cherry tones; and even her silken auburn hair seemed to be hoary and rough, though still pulled back into a bun as she always had. She turned to me, her hands laced before her as she offered me an ardent grin, her hazel gaze setting themselves upon me—albeit cold and gray, not like hers true.


Still as stone, I gazed upon her for a long moment, before Margaret opened her arms as tears nearly welled within her eyes. I hastened myself to embrace her tightly, hugging her in my own—yet I could not help that notice that she remained cold to the touch, perhaps from the touch of the doleful weather and rain.


With some time passsed, she then pulled away, though still close; her demeanor bittersweet, yet I was oblivious to any negative emotion, blinded by my delight. She then motioned me to the crimson sette and hearth, beside which sat a table supporting two boiling cups of Chamomile tea, our favorite. Then, we sat ourselves before the warmth of the flames, my tea remained held betwixt my fingers as I urged her to share her account of the last few days—yet she insisted, instead saying that there was not much for her to speak about, before motioning me to speak my own instead. And so I did.


What seemed as hours passed as I spoke my mind, sharing jokes and recounting the fondest of our memories together, each passing moment precious. I consumed the last of the tea, though she hadn’t raised her own to her lips yet, and when I had offered for her to drink, she merely declined—much unlike herself. Still, Margaret was eager for me to return to my own stories, as if she were pressed for time, which aroused a fleeting suspicion.


After some more minutes, the jovial atmosphere faded thereafter, becoming one more sober and solemn. Margaret watched the flickering flames with a doleful gaze, and even the flames themselves seemed to be locked in a grieving waltz as they reflected from her dull eyes. I heard  with grave concern as she spoke, her voice cracking as she stared into the crackling hearth. She said many things, apology and remorse, for all she had said and done; and one thing in particular left me aghast, and shall haunt me until the end of my days, for she had told me she wished that she had only some more tim.


Though perplexed, I continued to receive Margaret’s melancholic words with a disquieted thought, for I would not deign to part with her again and live—no, I certainly could not live again without her.


Abruptly, the Great Tower struck the day’s final chord, echoing the last few chimes of the twelfth hour. Margaret then rose in lugubrious fashion, her hands folding before her as she looked to me, tears once again welling within her eyes. I again bid her to tell me what was wrong, but she merely refused and made a shushing gesture, soft motioning her finger to her thin lips. What happened then, I cannot recall, save for an immense feeling of grief which swelled throughout my entire being.


When I had come to, I lay upon the velvet couch before the dying flames, the first light of day pouring through the glass of the window. It was now the third dawn of October. Fully collecting myself, I returned my attention to the events of the prior night, bolting from my seat as I scoured the house—calling her name in frantic anticipation of response. Yet nothing but my own voice rang through those secluded, barren walls, and then I knew that I was truly alone. 


Sitting back down before the dying flames, I would wait in silence, staring towards the remnant ember as it ate away the charred log; perhaps it was all just a dream? Yes, that it was indeed some phantasm of the mind, for my dear Margaret was in Whitechapel with her parents, and she was going to be coming home upon this very day—my demeanor brightening shortly. This train of thought was then pulled by soft chime of a bell which was heard from the street outside. At this I quickly rose to open the door, gazing upon the paper which rested upon the pedway before my apartment, grabbing it before proceeding back inside.


It was then that my eye spied something that sat within in the corner of the room beside the couch where I’d slept—two teacups, one empty, and the other full. So it was not a dream, and my mind was led to wander. Yet amidst my rumination, I felt inclined to read the paper, my heart pulled towards it much despite my own begrudging and vexation. My eyes fell upon the front page, and what I witnessed left me in utter grief as I gazed upon the headline and image which remained below. 


It was a photograph, that of Margaret, cold and lifeless upon the pavement, slewn in a horrific and gruesome fashion. She wore the same black dress, yet it was tattered and torn, her soulless eyes gazing upwards towards that of my own as if the paper were but a bleak window. I wept, only then reading the annotation below the printed image, which reach the but following:


Margaret Levene; found deceased on midnight of October 2nd. The autopsy indicates that she had perished only two days prior to her body’s discovery...





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Ooop ignore that, my question was answered. Short story incoming.

Edited by Sevastiel
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IGN: Wretched

Category: Creative Writing


Reader discretion is strongly advised!








          Down descended the platform lift, its aged ropes stretching taut with a disconcerting creak as they were fed through a similarly weathered pulley. A workforce of six men stood patiently as they were lowered slowly into the cavernous abyss, each donning archeological and excavation equipment, and each with a candle-lit lantern hanging from their tool belts. While five nervously peered into the dark, a muscular one stood before them, and spoke in a reassuringly commanding tone:


          “Don’t know what you all did to be here, and I don’t care. My name is Percival, and I’m here on behalf of the professor. In this place, my word’s law; do exactly what I say, when I say it, and you’ll all be out of here within the day.”


          A scrawny 19-year old in a set of overalls several sizes too large, cracked a grin, “Hi Percy, name’s Bo. So what, you here to make sure we don’t make a run for it?”


        “I’m here to keep you alive.” Percival narrowed his eyes at the young boy, but at the que of the workforce’s following gasp, he turned to behold a behemoth of a machine placed centrally in the dark. Though the darkness concealed the edges of the vast cavern, the metallic surface of the machine shone with a dull, sourceless illumination.



(Artist: Tomasz Strzalkowski)


         With a thud, the lift landed hard onto the surface of the cavern floor. The structure before them towered above, its exterior littered with peculiar deep crevices and jutting iron mechanisms, though all seemed to be static and silent.


          “Follow me. Don’t get distracted. Our only objective is to map the third level.” Percival was granted a series of shy nods in response, bar Bo, who opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly silenced by a wave of Percival’s hand, “Save the questions for the professor. I don’t want to be down here all night.”


         The expedition continued with Percival leading the group to the base of the machine, their dim lamplights doing little to battle the abrasive darkness that surrounded them. Bo trailed to the back of the group, poking a gaunt, elderly worker in the side with his elbow “So, is this thing dangerous?”. The man sneered at Bo, but begrudgingly answered, “All I know is, they never use the same lot of workers twice.” Before Bo could query further, Percival marched through the arched entrance of the structure, and called back.


             “Stay away from the walls.”


          Bo arched a brow at the curious warning, peering to the sleek ebony walls of the corridors. The metal was unfamiliar; a dark material that seemed to produce its own dull light, causing each wall to softly glisten even with no lamp held close. What seemed to be narrow pipes mazed up and down the walls, ceiling and floor, but as Bo inspected one, it shifted, beginning to snake up the wall and vanish into a small crevice.


           “Percy..? There’s something, something moved-” Percival interrupted Bo a second time: “A trick of the light - it happens here. I said, don’t get distracted.”


          They ascended a spiral stair and came to an opening that split into several passages. Percival turned to address the workforce, his expression of concern clearly illuminated even under the dim glow of his lamp, “Here we are. Spread out and look around, but keep in sight of each other’s lanterns. When we move, we’ll move together.”


          A moment’s trepidation followed, but soon after the workforce began nervously edging off into the dark. Bo joined Percival by his side, deciding against his previous instruction, and offered him a question: “What happened to the other workers?” Percival rolled his eyes, “Prisoners, you mean. They are lost.”




          The most piercing of high-pitched screams resonated through the structure. Quickly, the workers rushed to its source, all gathered around the elderly one of the group, who had his arm lodged half-way into a rounded hole in the wall. He continued to scream, as every few seconds another inch of his arm was pulled into the hole, each inch followed by a crunch and a pronounced splatter of blood.


          “Don’t touch him! Stay back!” Percival pushed back the workers moving to his aid, keeping them a metre away to simply stand and watch him slowly die. “Kill me! Kill me!” the elderly one begged, the veins in his forehead so pronounced they looked as though they might burst. Crunch. The elderly one fell unconscious. Crunch. The others watched on in horror as the rest of his arm was fed into the hole. Crunch. His lifeless body slumped forward into a pool of his own blood, his arm missing entirely.


          The shock kept the group frozen in place, in time to watch transparent tubes along the wall that fed to the hole, go crimson red. The elderly one’s blood began pumping through the mechanisms of the wall, and slowly, it clicked open. A passage emerged into a chamber considerably more lit than the one they were stood in.


          “Nothing we could have done. Should have listened to me. No more separating - come on, we’ll stick together.” Percival entered the chamber, and the others followed behind. “We’re not heading back? Someone just died..” Bo questioned, his voice wavering with fear.


          However, his question went unanswered, instead replied by a mutual, terrified gasp. The chamber before them was much like the others, only wider, and lined with unevenly placed pillars formed of snaking rusted pipes. Attached to most of these pillars, half-absorbed into the mass of coiling metal, were human bodies. Tubes and pipes fed through flesh and orifices, somehow connecting them to the structure in a most unnatural, abhorrent way.



(Artist: Tomasz Alen Kopera)


          “Are they… dead?” Bo stood by the entrance, fear preventing his feet from moving further in. “Looks that way…” Percival spoke absently, approaching one of the bodies, its flesh grey and withered. Bo became startled and turned, as from behind him within the empty corridor they had come from, there came a whisper:


“To serve until our bones are dust,

And welcome home the Lord of Rust.”


          “You hear that?” Bo turned back and became pale. Each of the workers that had accompanied him had been silently lifted into the air by snaking tendrils of the same malleable metal, descending unseen from the ceiling. They all twitched maniacally, their screamings muffled by thick tubes forcing themselves down their throats and wrapping around their limbs. More tendrils lowered, each hovering before their victims before plunging their spiked tips into exposed flesh, slowly coiling en-masse around them to form new pillars.


          Percival, unharmed by the tendrils, was left standing in the centre of the chamber. He smiled, and paced toward the petrified Bo, who still found himself unable to urge his legs to run. Percival’s eyes had turned a haunting black, and he spoke:


          “Finally, a fit. Welcome home. We have been waiting.”


          All bodies in the chamber, even the ones thought to be already dead, began to quake and shudder, each wriggling in muffled fits of agony. The floor in the centre of the chamber parted, and from the opening rose a jet-black, jagged throne, and seated within it was a man-like figure made entirely of the same black metal.


          The metal man suddenly parted down the centre, and when opened, revealed itself to in fact be a hollow suit similar to an iron-maiden, riddled on the inside with spikes and small circular saw-blades. From the opening in its head, a skull fell, turning to dust the moment it struck against the floor.


          “No… No…” Bo whimpered, but his begs went unheard. From the chest of Percival, a dozen snaking metal tendrils shot forth, bursting through his ribcage in a sickly explosion of bone and blood. The tendrils wrapped themselves around Bo and carried him into the air. Slowly, Percival turned, and used his unholy extension of parasitic metal to forcibly throw the boy into the deadly suit.


          Bo’s flesh tore open, spikes and blades piercing his body all along his back. Hooks of metal curled into his legs and forearms, sliding cleanly through muscle and bone, gruesomely holding him in place. His screams emerged gurgled by his own blood, but became silenced entirely when the jaws of the suit slammed shut around him, sealing him within. With only the flesh of his hands still visible, his fingers madly clenched and unclenched as the many small saw blades that lined the suit began to whirl, quickly becoming coated in a thin layer of blood.



(Artist: Obery Nicolas)


          From the vacant eye-sockets of the metal suit, Bo’s blood began to seep. And all around him, the structure whirred into motion; its gears began to churn and its pistons to pound. The upper-half of the structure began slowly spinning on an axis, now producing a thick plume of black smoke from its top. With a deep fog-horn roar, the cruel machine rumbled to life, now reunited with its unwilling Lord.




 [[Google doc link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qwc3J2W3efw7-3udM9KxPsPAl0xMPcWHy8mDXKNxr3s/edit ]]




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IGN: Harren
Category: Carving
Artwork: here it is (ghosts are horrifying because they’re dead but not dead right?? also dude look at those trees those are spooky trees)


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IGN: Professorus
Category: Artwork


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IGN: nornukig
Category: Artwork



An origami masu box, made out of A4 sheets bearing printed-out pattern of sightless eyes, which I have manually drawn with a 0.3 thick fineliner beforehand. Snippet of the scanned pattern is below:




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IGN: z3m0s
Theme: Video Editing


This was made very last minute, so it’s not my best work but I hope you enjoy, also potential volume warning for headphone users 👍



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IGN: jumperhand3
Category: Build

Artwork: The home of Glenda the Vile, a witch whose power can enlarge any organic material. She originally intended to use her powers for good, but it started to corrupt her when she realized she could work with the deceased....






A chopping block for quick disposal of wanderers.



A strange garden growing all sorts of poisonous things.



A graveyard to help keep the skeletons safe and clean underground.



Glenda’s home inside a pumpkin she enlarged with her magic.



A shrine to Iblees.



These mushrooms used to house slaves servants to Glenda did not age well. They show signs of magical corruption, never designed to be enlarged with her foul magic.



An experiment in creating poison from the soil has led to interesting deformations.



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