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May 2023 Battle of the Arts - The End of an Era


Oh_Ontario
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IGN: Noob3738

Discord: Nooblius#4534

Category of Choice: Creative Writing

Title of Your Piece: Son of the Eagle and Crow

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IGN: CptClocky

DISCORD: cptclocky

CATEGORY OF CHOICE: Creative Writing

TITLE OF YOUR PIECE: AD MORTEM US PARTEM

 

 

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IGN: Sarven323

DISCORD: Sarven#9722

CATEGORY OF CHOICE: Visual Art + Skinning

TITLE OF YOUR PIECE: Last Vestiges of Imperium

 

(cant upload the Figura files here, so, just shoot over disc)

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IGN: KaptainScarlet 

DISCORD: Scarlet#7009

CATEGORY OF CHOCIE: Visual Art

TITLE OF YOUR PIECE: The Small Flame that Prevails

IMG_0252.png?width=812&height=595

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IGN: ___siren___

Discord: siren#1715
Category: Visual art

Title: One the Siege of the Mori

 

 

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IGN: xepphir 

DISCORD: kuro#9824

CATEGORY: visual art

TITLE: Last Battle

full resolution

newillust_004.png?width=1226&height=676

 

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Ign: madzyme

Discord: mady!#1679

Category: creative writing

Title:

 

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IGN: Smol_bean0

DISCORD: Smol_Bean~#2377

CATEGORY OF CHOICE: Creative writing

TITLE OF YOUR PIECE: Unforgiving.

SUBMISSION: Unforgiving.

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IGN: woodylego

DISCORD: Woodylego#0571

CATEGORY OF CHOICE: Creative Writing

TITLE OF YOUR PIECE: The Fall of Minitz, or, the Rejoice of Minitz

 

Submission:

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/226061-the-fall-of-minitz-or-the-rejoice-of-minitz-a-poem/?tab=comments#comment-1981268

Edited by woodylego
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IGN: Amuletic
Discord: Amuletic#6666
Category of Choice: Visual Art
Title of Your Piece:

City of the Dying Ember

344018256_Morinofireeffect.thumb.gif.272c13fb1b9dde13751cef90a30b8d7a.gif

Embers. What can be the start of a great flame, or the last stand of a previously mighty fire.  Fi’andria was once known as the City of Embers, a symbol for their valiant renewal in western Almaris: a new hope for the prosperity of Celia’nor. And yet, at the final siege of the Starland, Mori’quessir seized the capital, effectively conquering the West in a final confrontation, smothering the once bright flame of Fi’andria. What remains is a dying ember of a once valiant city, inhabited by Mori’quessir who seek to extinguish the flame descendants had lit. And with the last descendant’s skull within the palm of the Mori’quessir leader, an ember is stamped out.

Spoiler

Full Still Image: City of the Dying Ember

Feel free to zoom all around the image, I included little details for those of you who are vigilant… (hint: spider)

 

This image depicts a Mori’quessir upon the Celia’nor throne, with a voidal hollow in the background, and embers of the burning Celian flags swirling about. The leader is wearing the teeth of those who have been killed in combat, and holding the skull of the last descendant who failed to flee from their wrath.

 

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IMG_2536.png

IGN: FlareGunCalamity

DISCORD: FlareGunCalamity#0063

CATEGORY OF CHOICE: VISUAL ART

TITLE OF YOUR PIECE: The Meek Shall Inherit Almaris

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1C8R5PDf8OEL-OhGejA1raaa69RZDWQln/view?usp=sharing

Explanation:

I feel like as time marches forward on lord of the craft, the playerbase is making strides towards being a more accepting and diverse community. I’d like the end of an era to represent an end to the time when i would get harassed for playing trans characters, or when racial slurs would be casually tossed around irp. My piece has a subtle rainbow gradation from red to purple across the piece to represent pride. i also chose to depict female characters from the stereotypical underdog races on the server, fighting side by side. The halfling druid summons branches to a defensive wall while the farfolk warrior aims an aurum tipped arrow from a jarmakee-drawn bow, the orc huntress cries her fiercest battle cry, and the dark elven rogue charges forth with dual blades. They also form a rainbow with their clothes and hair!

Edited by FlareGunCalamity
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IGN: Miss_Confined 
Discord: Miss_Confined#8341 
Category: Visual Art 
Title of Piece: "End of an Era, New Beginnings" 
https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1108611307101507615/1115009100024131714/ct-art2023-final.png


https://imgur.com/gallery/UWUYUOK 

 

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 IGN: Saun_399 
Discord: Saun#6570     Category: Visual Arts     Title: End of an Era.

thecircuscomic.png

Edited by Saun_399
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IGN: toffToffee
Discord: meggiebyte
Category: Creative writing
Title of piece: The Emperor Who Never Was (excerpt from a WIP novelisation of the Aster Revolution) (ty to UnBaed for proofreading and letting me use her character as the POV <3)

 

Spoiler

Moliana’s breath misted the air, a silver cloud shot through with weak winter sunlight. She had to grip the walls to keep from slipping on the frosty flagstones as she staggered towards the almshouse of Saint Judith. With deep winter fast approaching, it was at capacity. Moliana fought to keep food on the table but the granary already dwindled at dangerously low levels and it was all she could do not to wring the Master of Grain’s neck every time he said Moliana had to stop giving out bread to the poor.

 

The Empire had more needy women and children than Moliana had ever realised. Living in the Augustine Palace, it was easy to forget that the gilded luxury was built on the backs of serfs and hardworking men and women out in the regions.

 

The almshouse was right by the gates. Moliana was just about to slip inside when a carriage rushed into the courtyard, heralded by the clattering of horses and heavy rumble of wheels.

 

Charlotte’s carriage—her coat of arms flew from the roof—but what was she doing returning from the city so soon? Charlotte was the first to leave the carriage, batting away the hand of a footman who tried to help her down. She moved like a maelstrom of silk and warm furs, striding through the courtyard without a glance left or right and slamming the front doors behind her when she entered the castle. Konstantin hopped out next, holding out an arm to Josephine and helping her down from the carriage. He kept her stable on the slippery stone of the courtyard, walking slowly towards Moliana.

 

Josephine looked like she had been crying. Her normally pale skin was even paler, almost grey except for the bright spots of colour low on her cheeks and around her eyes. Moliana’s stomach clenched.

 

“What’s happened?”

 

Konstantin opened his mouth but Josephine cut him off, her voice surprisingly steady. Clearer than Moliana had ever heard it.

 

“The Duke and Duchess of Furnestock have taken the city. It was a swift, bloodless coup. Except…” Her voice hitched but she struggled on, gripping Konstantin’s arm tighter. “The Emperor is dead, and so is Prince Philip Aurelian. No one has seen Princess Josephine to confirm it, but many say she too has perished.”

 

Moliana should have seen this coming. As soon as she heard the news that Prince Philip Amadeus was alive, she should have known. He was vastly more popular than his adulterous father and decrepit grandfather. It was only a matter of time.

 

Why did it have to happen so soon?

 

Moliana walked with them to the castle. They had entered the sitting room when Josephine spoke again.

 

“I have to write to Lady Claude and Prince James,” Josephine mumbled, any confidence and clarity withering to nothing. “To explain that I am not coming back, that I resign… Oh, I’m so afraid. Moliana, you did not see it. It was promised that we would not be harmed, but the power they wield… It is like nothing I have ever seen. If they wanted us smited, it could be done like that.” Josephine snapped her fingers. “They crowned him Philip the Third right then and there, the throne barely gone cold from where his grandfather sat on it hours before.”

 

“By a false Pontiff,” Charlotte said from where she paced ceaselessly in front of the fireplace. “A new Pontiff they have lifted up in their hubris. They are not even crowned in the eyes of God and yet they see fit to take everything, my position, my clothes, my jewellery…”

 

She buried her face in her hands and openly sobbed, this woman who had always been so strong. Moliana knew it wasn’t truly the clothes and jewels she mourned for, but what they symbolised. Her husband murdered, her station snatched from her, her position at court trampled and ripped away.

 

A few short days ago, the voidal tear had been Moliana’s greatest worry. The Vicechancellor had invested Imperial State Army soldiers in setting up a perimeter, protecting the researchers working within. She hadn’t expected anything from the Crown but the Vicechancellor had gone above and beyond what she ever could have hoped. Perhaps if there had been more soldiers guarding the city, Philip and Anastasia wouldn’t have been able to storm the capital. Perhaps Philip Aurelian would still be alive.

 

“We will have a memorial for him,” Moliana said quietly.

 

A few weeks later, she stood on the parapets above the front gates of Castle Woldzmir. The portcullis was closed tight—even though Philip and Anastasia had promised that no harm would come to any of them, Moliana couldn’t trust a pair that had stormed the capital with foreign soldiers and secured the throne, leaving three dead in their wake. 

 

Many reports had reached her in Woldzmir in those intervening weeks. The common story was that Prince Philip had perished from a failure of the heart, but the timing was too much of a coincidence for Moliana to believe it, although everyone else in the Empire seemed to eat it up from a mother-of-pearl spoon like the finest caviar.

 

From up there, Moliana could see out over the dark trees, scraping at the pale, cloud-covered sky like skeletal fingers. If the people of Dobrov were not constantly vigilant, the forest’s reclaiming of the town would be swift and brutal. Tree roots would smash the foundations, moss and lichen would creep in and dress the buildings in grey and green cloaks, and before long there would be nothing left but broken pottery, a shattered memory of a town that had once been.

 

Directly opposite Castle Woldzmir stood the church, right on the edge of town at the dark treeline. Its position seemed to say God will not protect you here, will not protect you from the things that lurk in the dark. 

 

Ostromir. Moliana’s paternal grandfather. He was out there somewhere. She had heard murmurings of him and even sensed his presence, an oily, dark miasma hanging over Dobrov, stinking of ancient malice.

 

Later. Deal with him later.

 

For now, she needed to focus on the memorial.

 

Down on the grassy bank, a memorial to Philip Aurelian stood surrounded by candles and gifts and trinkets. Up on the parapets, Moliana had several cages of crows ready to be released in the Woldzkiy custom, to guide Prince Philip’s soul to the Seven Skies. She hadn’t loved the man—she had planned a brutal punishment for him after learning of his unfaithfulness to her mother—but she didn’t wish to see him dead, especially not in the cold grip of his own son’s ambition.

 

Moliana glanced to her right. The gates were closed, fearing the worst from this new empire, so there were only a few others inside the castle walls with her. Elimar, baby Viorel, Charlotte, and Konstantin. No Josephine.

 

Having to unexpectedly flee north when winter was upon them had left Josephine direly ill. She was in one of the central rooms, farthest from the cold walls, huddled before a fire. Konstantin had brewed medicine for her. Moliana didn’t trust the man. She had never liked him much, even before he was the new Empress’ brother. But in checking the medicine she had begrudgingly allowed that he was a good alchemist and the calming draught would ease the tension in Josephine’s lungs. 

 

Konstantin hadn’t shown even the slightest inclination to be a part of his sister’s court. He had accompanied Charlotte and Josephine from the capital, helping Josephine down from the carriage with a steadying hand on her arm. Still, Moliana misliked him, and would keep an eye on him, even if she appreciated that he was standing up on the parapets with them in observance of the vigil.

 

Charlotte stepped up to speak. Her face was pale and drawn, and for the first time Moliana saw how she had aged. Streaks of silver threaded through her golden blonde hair and lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes.

 

“My husband, the Duke of Adria, was a dutiful man. His heart remained with his dear late wife, but we had an understanding and a respect between us. He married me for duty, so that his children and grandchildren would have a motherly figure in their lives, so that his Empire would have an Empress. This sense of duty would have made him a fine Emperor, if he had only been given the chance.”

 

Charlotte held out her unlit candle to Elimar, who cradled baby Viorel in his arms. With his free hand he held out a lit taper and Charlotte dipped the candle wick towards it. She walked down the line of those standing on the parapets, lighting everyone’s candle. Below, the small congregation did the same. This was no great state funeral for a member of the Imperial family; more like a pauper’s funeral, with little more than thirty gathered on the bridge and on the grassy verge. Unbidden, tears pricked the backs of Moliana’s eyes. Mourning for this man she never even liked. 

 

“Son. Husband. Father. Grandfather.” Charlotte’s lower lip wobbled but she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Orenian.

 

There was a moment of silence for Philip Aurelian, everyone with their heads bent, then Moliana unclasped the latches to the cage and the air filled with the ruffling wing beats and mournful croaks of the crows. The sounds echoed over the footsteps of a woman stepping forwards, face covered by a heavy black veil.

 

“I would like to say a few words.” The woman lifted the veil and Moliana sucked in a sharp breath to see Anastasia standing before them.

 

This was not the girl Moliana had known. The girl she had known in her childhood was pale and serious, raised by nuns, but with a spark of wildness in her that came out whenever she played with Moliana and Sig. As a young woman, Anastasia had been wilful and stubborn, breaking out of the lines that had been drawn around her. Even if she had always bent the world around her to her will, Moliana would have never in a thousand years believed that Anastasia would be capable of taking an empire. She should have believed it. The woman in front of her still had that long, serious face, but there was steel in her eyes and in the punishingly straight way she held her spine. Unbending, unbreakable.

 

Charlotte stiffened, her fingers going tight around the candle. She shook so violently the wax spilled, dripping down over her knuckles, but Charlotte didn’t seem to notice.

 

“How dare you,” Charlotte began quietly. There were already rumours circulating that Empress Anastasia had orchestrated her own father-in-law’s death, but there was nothing confirmed, no concrete evidence. Moliana laid a hand on Charlotte’s arm, hoping that she wouldn’t accuse Anastasia openly, in front of so many witnesses. “You may not have killed my husband,” she said, her voice trembling, “but your selfish actions caused his demise. That you can show your face here speaks volumes of your arrogance.”

 

Anastasia inclined her head to Charlotte and glanced sidelong at the men on the right and left of her. Moliana realised they were guards with no uniform, there to keep the Empress safe. Her grip tightened on Charlotte’s arm. Would more blood be shed here, over the memorial of a man slain in the name of a memory called Empire?

 

“I meant no disrespect, Duchess. I will take my leave.” Anastasia walked slowly along the row of vigil-goers, looking each and every one in the face. Some shrank away from her, some awkwardly bowed, recognising her as the Empress but not knowing what to think, what to do. With the church at her back, Anastasia turned around. “One more thing, before I go; brother, come home.” Anastasia didn’t wait for a response. She turned and continued her dignified exit, accompanied by her guards.

 

Moliana looked down the parapets at Konstantin and found his face bloodless, hands gripping the rough stone railing. He was normally so good at guarding his features, but he looked angry, his lips a thin line. Moliana didn’t know what to think of him. He could have everything if he returned to the capital. A place at his sister’s court, a grant of lands. Saints, she would even have it in her power to convince the Emperor to strip Moliana of Woldzmir and grant the barony, or even the county of Dobrov, to Konstantin.

 

If Konstantin was so adept at guarding what he felt, if he had the iron will of a seasoned courtier at such a young age, what was his older sister capable of, this woman who had taken an empire?

 

Moliana stood on the walls of Woldzmir well into the winter day and into the early dusk of the afternoon, watching the vigil-goers slowly trickle off after paying their respects. She stared at the dark gaps between the trees for so long she began imagining things, monsters crawling through the darkness. When she looked directly at them they disappeared, only visible from the corner of her eye.

 

She only broke out of her reverie when she heard Viorel crying. Elimar had approached her from behind, holding their infant son.

 

“You can’t stay out here forever,” he said gently. “What are you watching for?”

 

Moliana hadn’t realised what she was standing guard for until she looked out through the dark trees. She was waiting for the soldiers to come, to take away her home, to oust her as they had ousted Charlotte. She put a protective hand over her stomach, where she knew another child was on the way.

 

“We need to be prepared.”

 

“We always are,” he assured her. “Now come inside. Please.”

 

Moliana acquiesced. The soldiers wouldn’t come tomorrow. Philip the Third had decided to continue his grandfather’s war, even though the dwarves had offered peace. Their quarrel was with Philip the Second, not his successor. It would have been the perfect opportunity to have peace, but instead their new Emperor had plunged them back into war. That would keep him busy for a while. 

 

Long enough for Moliana to form a plan.

 

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