The IIFA's running a commemorative exhibition at the moment. Its had to be a bit rushed to coincide with the current event, so sorry if its not up to the usual standard. There are some errors in it. I've had most of it check over by a third party, but if you see any mistakes could you message me with them so they can be remove. Thanks.
Edit: [Its a bit more explicit and gory than usual, so I thought I'd place this here as a disclaimer]
Title: Around the edge of a grotesque bonfire.
Hewn from the bleak rocks of Mhaldor's mountain, this circular platform is perfectly level. A titanic bonfire rises up from its centre, sending greasy black pillars of smoke high into the ferment. At the fire's very heart rises up two huge wicker-men, expertly crafted to resemble Lord Shaitan and Lord Apollyon stood loyally side by side. Although flames snarl brightly all across its surface, the structure does not succumb to their onslaught. Powerful magicks have been worked around this blazing idol to ensure it remains standing strong and steadfast. Within the bonfire's hellish depths rise up countless metal poles. Seven mortal sacrifices have been hung from hooks down each of them. These pitiful mortals scream and writhe in agony as the flames eat and bubble away at their flesh. A small platoon of daemonic Legionaries stand watch over the barbaric display. To the bonfire's east a huge holding pen has been crafted from iron and bone. Inside cower hundreds of bedraggled and dirt encrusted captives. Some wear the humble garbs of rural peasantry, but many more sport the ragged colours and heraldry of Mhaldor's enemy City States. Men, women, children and the elderly are there; none are permitted to escape Evil's far reaching shadow of terror. As each mortal sacrifice perishes in the flames (their corpses rendered chard and skeletal), the daemons replace them with fresh victims from this small internment camp. The fires harm not these hardy Inferno denizens, instead they simply clamber through unscathed. Each burnt offering is then handed over to bedraggled Mhun slaves who, under the unforgiving lash of Orc guardsmen, disappear away up the mountain side to a hidden location. Thousands of carrion birds swoop and saw around their secret destination in clouds of bleakest hunger.
I won a competition awhile ago to have Chris Bourassa paint a picture of Lodi. My profile pic is the end product.
Every inch of this room is covered in the purest ivory-white limestone. Each slab has been so masterfully cut and laid that the cracks between them are only visible upon closer inspection. A simple spiral staircase leads upwards and a glow globe fills the room with clear, crisp daylight. Gory foot prints erratically stretch all across the floor. They seem to generally be leading to, or emanating from, the southern room. A large rectangular painting occupies the northern walls. Carrion birds are shown there flocking in their thousands above a barren, battle-burned landscape. No plant life dwells upon this war-torn desert of carnage. Instead, corpses sow their bitter tears of grief as far as the eye can see. Hunchbacked scavenger-peasants crawl spider-like through the cadavers, gleefully searching the dead for valuables. Positioned in the centre of the canvas is a noble Maldaathi, his twin longswords raised in valiant defiance. His once gleaming fieldplate has been caked from head to foot with blood and gore. Like some crimson avatar of grim- myth, this knight faces an endless flood of enemies. The heathen warriors that beset him on every side outnumber him twenty to one, yet still the honourable warrior resists. His arm is strong, his will is steel; nay shall he surrender! He was born to stand against those who would defy Evil's Will, even until after the last breath has been violently exorcised from his martial frame. Garbed in the colours and heraldry of every city on Sapience (bar Mhaldor's), his assailants fall upon him with vengeful hatred burning in their eyes. One, a black and gold robed Ashtani monk, is depicted performing a flying kick through the air; Vengeance’s anguished cry cut across his young, weeping lips. Behind the Maldaathi a Shallamese Paladin can be seen fallen to his knees, confusion bubbling up through his face as he desperately tries to push his intestines back inside a jagged, gaping wound. Woe be unto these enemies of the Western City, for their cadavers number more numerous than a courtesan’s heart-broken lovers. The proud Knight of Evil stands upon a veritable mountain of decimated corpses. Each body a reminder of what awaits those whom defy the Power of Evil. Heads have been torn from necks, limbs slashed from limbs, chest cavities hewn open with a single stroke to reveal the gory offal within. The heathens press in from every side, clambering desperately up the corpse-hill to slay their hated target. Yet the Mhaldorian falls not to their Vengeful lust for Oppression - each Suffering makes him but stronger, an unstoppable juggernaut; a father of anguish; a child born of violence! Bleeding from thousands of different wounds the Maldaathi unyieldingly stands, strong and resolute despite the overwhelming odds. A life of brutal discipline and unforgiving pain has trained his mind and body into the ultimate weapon. None can stand in his way. His blades are harbingers of the Seven Truths in their harshest manifestation. This is Mhaldor's zeitgeist; one lone man against the world, stood strong despite the bitter winds of fate! This is Mhaldor's history; a ghost conjured from Her dawning era to stride magnificently across the lands of Sapience once more! This is Mhaldor's spirit - unbreakable; indivisible; TRUTH in the least allegorical sense of the word!
Title: His Fire Touches All.
Every inch of this cube-shaped room is covered in the purest, ivory-white limestone. Each slab has been so masterfully cut and laid that the cracks between them are only visible upon closer inspection. A glow globe fills the room with clear, crisp daylight. Gory foot prints erratically stretch all across the floor. They seem to generally be leading to, or emanating from, the southeast. Hung from the western wall is an expansive rectangular canvas. Across its surface explodes a veritable maelstrom of colour. On the painting's left-hand side a raging inferno of fiery colours swirls and spins. Vivid oranges, brooding reds and vibrant yellows blaze across the canvas remorselessly. To the image's right a mighty river rushes and surges with woeful anguish. Shining blues, watery greens and subtle purples flow and eddy in a surging pulse of tempestuous colour. To depict this epic, elemental clash of water and flame, the artist has abandoned traditionalist realism and has instead sought to capture the clash's core essence with exuberant abstraction. Paint splatters this way and that in huge arches. The brush strokes themselves are thick and energetic, formed through directly attacking the canvas with focused wrath. In places, hand prints and finger-trails can be seen where the artist has forgone the usual tools of his trade, electing to instead engage with the canvas in the most direct way possible. It appears that, on the odd occasion, he has literally spat great mouthfuls of blood and paint onto the work. Small tears can be seen here and there, where the force of his assault has damaged the canvas itself. The muscular physicality of his creation process can be seen within each angry artistic gesture. Every inch of the artist's body was thrown into their creation; energetic and passionate action-painting at its most savagely beautiful. The painting's opposing halves meet in the middle, to seethe and flow around the two focal figures of the piece with radial symmetry. Fitting into the composition's overall mode, the artist has painted them in the impasto style. He has thickly layered up blocks of colour to create a masterful, three dimensional quality without abandoning the overall abstracted style. Lord Apollyon's slender and flawless form rises malevolently up from the fire, silhouetted almost black against its burning brightness. Caught up in the tornado of energy that swirls around the image, dark wavy hair flows wildly out around His hate-lit face. Cobalt robes trail behind Him as He strikes forth with His barbed lash. The weapon is captured flicking straight across the painting's centre, its vicious tongue flaying the Lord of Suffering's Divine adversary: Kastalia, Lady of the River. She has been knocked slightly back by the unexpected blow's mighty force. The waters foam and splash as She falls into them. Her white hair smoulders, for Suffering's flames dance along His whip to bless Her flesh with their holy touch. Lord Apollyon's attack has ripped a huge swathe of everecent, baby-blue skin away from Her body. Revealed under it, however, is nay simple meat and sinew. Instead, Her muscular framework has been created from the closely packed forms of weeping devotees. Their tears stream down in sorrow to mingle with the faltering waters. They are irreversibly stained by the Blood of Suffering. Futility is their name, for futile are their cries! A single blooded handprint has been left on the canvas.
Every inch of this room has been painted an abyssal black, the uniformity of the colour distorting the architectural boundaries of the enclosed space. A tiny globe of light hangs in mid-air. It provides just enough glow to iluminate an ivory bowl placed reverently upon a white plinth. Stagnant river water sits dead and unmoving within. This tiny remnant of a realm cast bereft and Motherless, is marred by but one artifice; a single, lonely streak of blood.
Title: His Face in Her Tear.
Every inch of this cube-shaped room is covered in the purest, ivory-white limestone. Each slab has been so masterfully cut and laid that the cracks between them are only visible upon closer inspection. A glow globe fills the room with clear, crisp daylight. Gory foot prints erratically stretch all across the floor. They seem to generally be leading to, or emanating from, the south. It appears that someone has vomited blood in one of the corners. A huge circular canvas has been hung from the eastern wall. Shadows cast themselves mournfully across the secluded mountain-scape depicted there, their vale of grief spun by the light of a red and Vengeful moon. Its fullness hangs heavy at the central apex of the painting, a lone midnight cloud drifting across its sour features. Achaea's rings streak across the star-studded firmament beneath it, their outermost edge cast into crimson droplets of blood by the celestial body’s illumination. Nearer the painting's bottom, the moon's woeful face is reflected into glistening aqua-distortion across a tiny mountain stream's rippled surface. The watercourse meanders sluggishly up through a barren plateau until it reaches the image's centre. Here, a soft haze of mist rises up as it tumbles away over a cliff edge. Unforgiving walls of jagged rock ominously rise heavenwards to either side of the composition. Their claustrophobic presence attributes to the painting a disturbing undercurrent of subconscious anxiety. The moon and stars are framed between their gnarled ascents, caged in by the Oppressive burden of bleakest grief. A lone figure sits hunched over the stream’s edge. Ourania, Goddess of the Moon, has reached forward, drawing forth a cupped handful of water in a desperate attempt to hold Her murdered Daughter for one last time. Yet the icy mountain liquid simply trickles sadly away through Her fingers. With the glazed expression of soul-destroyed loss, Lady Ourania watches the water as it slowly disappears... She is Suffering as only mothers can for the death of their child. Her face is paler than usual and its luminous quality heavily dulled. The artist has captured Her in one of those desolate moments of grief, where hysterical weeping has subsided for a time, leaving but a hollow, aching emptiness in its wake. She appears lost, knocked down low by the emotional contradiction reeling violently through Her broken heart. Where is Her Daughter? One moment She was there, then the next... Truth is often a bitter herb to swallow. One single tear slides down Her cheek. Lord Apollyon's face is depicted reflected upon its surface. He glares up eagerly at Lady Moon; His wounded eye smouldering away in malevolent rapture. Painted with the utmost delicacy to detail, the artist has laboured over this depiction, attributing a deeper and more sublime level of realism than in any other part of the painting. For Suffering affects ALL; from the lowliest worms to even the Gods themselves, none can escape its multiversal grasp...
Title: To Bring Him Back...
The air is fettered here; it stinks of urine, excrement and decomposing flesh. Hundreds of flies buzz all around. Mad, incoherent scrawlings adorn every wall. In places there are huge swathes of complex poetry in praise to Lord Apollyon, but mostly there is but insane and endless repartitions. Much of the writings are written in blood, although here and there excrement and other more unsavoury bodily fluids have been used. A few words can be read over and over again: 'Suffer', 'Grief', 'Apollyon', 'Return' and 'Dead!' In the centre of the room a slender human man is nailed naked to a towering ivory crucifix. His lifeless body has been horrendously mutilated, his eyes gouged out, his teeth smashed into jagged and bloody shards. Into his right eye-socket a ruby has been savagely thrust. Across the floor beneath him, blood splatters everywhere in huge, violent trails. Its focal point is at the heart of a massive chalk pentagram. The heavily dribbled stubs of black candles and various gruesome body parts sit at the Apostate symbol’s five points. A scourge also lies inside the pentagram, its viscous teeth covered with gore and strips of skin. It appears that, over the duration of many days, someone has brutally flagellated themselves over and over again in a frenzy of adoration. A course, hessian sack has been lain out in the corner as some sort of bed. On it rests the heavily decomposed remains of two young Shallamese orphan boys. Although quite clearly not tampered with sexually, the torture these children experienced is sickening to the extreme. Dozens of other maggot ridden cadavers litter the room. Some are suspended from hooks, others have been completely eviscerated, their entrails draped around the place to form forbidden esoteric glyphs. There is an unnatural heaviness to the atmosphere here, a hideous stain left by profane magick. It feels as if a primordial daemonic energy is watching all that transpires with malevolent hunger. This room quite clearly stands as a record and tribute to the deep, spiritual torment of a sick, sick mind.
Title: The Reborn Demon Emperor!
This rooms roof has been completely removed, its outer walls knocked down and chiselled away to form a space similar in size to Baelgrim's courtyard. Sheer cliffs rise up high through Mhaldor's crimson mists, hewn with back braking dedication from the side of Her black rock. A mountainous monument towers into the ferment. Crafted to represent Lord Sartan, its framework is comprised of a complex mesh of iron beams. Countless horrifyingly burnt cadavers have been tightly packed all over its outside and are quickly filling up its internal layers also. Some hang from nooses, others have just simply ben cast aside to dangle limply over random girders, but most are impaled upon viscous spikes. Thousands of carrion birds swarm all around it, their harsh cries of delight echoing ominously about the place. Daemons of all shape and size climb around inside the monument, gorging on the feast of mortal flesh and perversely defiling random cadavers as they go. Some of their smaller brothers have taken to riding various ravens and vultures as mounts. They spin and saw about the place, cackling manically in sinister glee. Disfigured and mutated cherubims fly around the megalithic structure. From their clawed hands dangle lengthy scrolls of parchment, each adorned by a different Truth of Evil scribed in elegant calligraphic script. They lift their voices as a unified daemonic choir, singing rapturous praises unto their Lord and Master; the reborn Demon Emperor! Rickety wooden walkways rise all the way up around the statue. It is along these unstable pathways that steady torrents of Mhun slaves bring fresh corpses to add to the brutal construct. However, they are not the only mortals to work in attendance here. For innumerable black robed priests wander hither and thither, their faces concealed by expansive hoods, their hands swaying brazen thurible back and forth; a trail of noxious incense left to cloy their wake. As they walk they chant guttural Qithian mantras and invoke esoteric symbols with blood soaked ceremonial daggers. Occasionally, one will grab a slave and slit is throat, shouting out forbidden words of power as the Mhun's blood gushes warm and steaming into the cold Mhaldorian air. Their presence and doings are clear indications to this statue's magickal nature. It is indeed a mighty ritual of diabolic proportions that is being enacted, but for what purpose is worryingly unclear. At the monuments very heart has been suspended a massive iron cage. Many priests climb around its outer edge, inscribing glowing neon glyphs wherever they can reach. Currently no one resides within this magical prison, its existence left as a blank enigma...