Path of Exile Talent Competition

I'd like to participate.

How do I confirm I'm in?

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Kyatton เขียน:

First submission

สปอยล์

And second, the process :p

สปอยล์

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnGqTGhceSg

That first submission is beautiful! Well done

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RaVirr17 เขียน:

Warming up:

This pic is metal as hell. I love it. Well done

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Trebien75 เขียน:

Fanfic here

ENGLISH:
https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/2743642

Português:
https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/2743644

Wish I could read Portugues. You could record it into the sound data and I could at least feel the breathe of your characters.

Here we go!

are there any high-res pictures of the new exile and sirus? the wiki ones are pretty tiny

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Boloso เขียน:

are there any high-res pictures of the new exile and sirus? the wiki ones are pretty tiny

Sirus is on the site background.

I'm planning some fanfiction to enter, but since multiple entries are allowed, and one of my talents is writing rambling critical/speculative essays at 3AM, here's one: https://www.reddit.com/r/pathofexile/comments/eofwlf/been_thinking_about_the_atlas_whoops_i_wrote_an/

Of the Templar and the Witch

In the hours dark and gloom

The witch over her cauldron stood.

A flower with such hidden thorns that no man could ever hold,

Her delicate frame and timid looks,

save but the ones that she forsook

Her former comrades, brothers in arms, bandits, which given the chance, jumped at the prospect of slitting each other’s throat
Years of friendship all for naught – swapped for the honor of being the only “lord”.
That these woods would shelter.

Beside her cauldron, within her wooden walls, she patiently waited for the one she had sent to dispose
Kraityn, the King of Rats, who dwelled east of the Chamber of Sins, and with his death her reign was to begin. A new ally had emerged, exiled from Oriath, so fortuitous
For her that he a Shadow was.

From her lieutenants she had heard the Oriathan made her former comrade bite the dust.
A trusty stab from distance safe, and on the forest floor Oak bled to death.
For that to her private dwellings she had him escorted. There her new champion was… amply rewarded.
Thus for the promise of power and bodily lust, the temptress had won the Shadows trust.

A grizzly sight lay next to her
Three corpses – in life they were men of bodies strong, in death – they were to become invincible.
Alira weaved her magic spell; their souls forever lost in hell – their flesh ‘bout to ascend again.
She had but one final hymn to sing
To wake the ones for whom the bells had knelled.

What’s the commotion beyond the gates? Was it her Shadow that her Lieutenants greeted with shouts befitting one who sealed the fates
Of her former friends turned foes?

But lo!
Twas not her champions face she saw that fateful night.
A figure clad in chainmail she caught butchering her brigands
Her most trusted men fell to an edge that flickered in the firelight
And when the armored one approached did she his features to a templar liken.

The Blasphemer…
Of him the witch had also heard. Devoted, militant redeemer
Who even before Dominus refused to bow. When he was sentenced by the Templar king, ever unrepentant, he did not the slightest beg or quiver.
Now before the witch the grim crusader stood.

Many a foe had challenged her
Their heads now adorned the stakewalls.
She was not the one to fear even the ones in a desperate mood.

Her wand she grasped, and with a swing, she sent an eerie burst at him.
The crusaders' shield held most the force, but he staggered slightly, and she thought
This was to be his last mistake
She raised her hands and uttered aloud an ancient rhyme
That would turn the corpses of the fallen men around the stranger into a fiery cloud,
But at the height of her hubris she staggered as she felt
The unholy grasp of unyielding, cold, dead hands

Underestimate she did Wraeclast’s corruption. The holy man, who would have thought, had become an agent of destruction. Forbidden knowledge, long though lost, the wisdom for which she lusted most
With gestures subtle and arcane the templar roused that which was laid to rest
Alira gasped as her chosen dead rose from their sleep not by her spell, but on his behest.

The dead brought her to the ground, she crumbled under ceaseless blows
The final stroke tore out her throat and on the verge of death herself she found.

The figure spoke with accent thick
“You are thus blessed, daughter of God. He will show you what true friendship is”
Surely no one from the neighbouring tribes would ever have thought,
That the Witch of the Cauldron was by her own miscreations unwrought.

Her consciousness dwindling from this world and thus with sight beyond the earthly reach
She saw the figure clad in light by mortal eyes unseen
The sense of dread she thought she felt by her approaching fate
Was but an omen of what this man would come to incarnate.
She saw this figure, zeal made flesh, into a god transform
With aura bright like her final sight… like sunset before the storm.