The Festival of Awakening

General

• This is a participation-based event with no judging or competition. 

• One entry per rider per exhibition. Multiple riders may enter separately.

• Entries must be made specifically for the event—no reposted, reused, or previously submitted content.

• Each Rider (and Mount, if applicable) should be clearly depicted performing an activity relevant to the prompt.

• If your rider hasn’t completed all their mage prompts, your event entry may count toward one—just be sure to clearly incorporate the prompt into your piece.

Art

• Artwork must be your own. Commissioned work, tracing, premade line-art, or AI-generated content is not allowed.

• Entries must include:
  - Full body (75%+)
  - Colour
  - Shading
  - Background

• Creative style and perspective are encouraged and will be considered.

• Riders must be clearly and easily identifiable. If their face is covered, another defining characteristic must be visible.

• Chibis, unrefined or oversimplified works will not be accepted.

Literature

• Minimum word count: 1,700 words for solo entries.

• Must be original writing, specific to the event and prompt.

• Each rider must be clearly depicted in a scene or narrative that connects directly to the prompt.

Collaborations

At the heart of the festival, the crowd swells—an eager ring of onlookers drawn tight around a field razed by spectacle. Magic clots the air, spitting and crackling like static before a lightning strike.

A roar of anticipation mounts as the duelists step into the ring. Energy gathers—trembling motes that shiver and whirl, stirred up from the scorched and brutalized earth with every footfall. Spectators jostle for a better view, pushing forward against the mage-guards holding the perimeter, keeping the overzealous observers at bay—for when arcane forces collide, the fallout can be... spectacularly catastrophic.

The din of eager voices tapers, drawing inward on bated breaths as the duelists assume their positions. They face one-another, bow. And then, at the solemn dong of the bell— 

The match begins.

A hush falls over the crowd as the mage steps forward, palm upturned. From its center, a single water droplet rises. It hangs in the air for a heartbeat, then shivers—shatters—into a thousand refracted rays. A prism of color erupts outward to a hum of delight from the crowd, light dancing like liquid across reverent faces and outstretched hands. The air ripples cool and gentle, mist brushing skin like a blessing, as above them bloom arcs of living radiance.

The performance is not merely a display of power, but a testament to the artistry of the arcane. In that single, fragile droplet lies the essence of magic’s most pure form. It is a celebration of beauty, a demonstration that magic is not only a force to be wielded, but an art to be cherished.

The sound of pounding hooves and roaring cheers fills the air. The Mounted Games are a time-honored tradition across Moren Ezen, and the Festival of Awakening is no exception. Out beyond the lantern-lit stalls and spell-lit performances, the crowd gathers where packed earth and wooden rails frame a makeshift arena. Here, there is no need for enchantment—there is only grit, skill, and a damn good horse.

Vendors line the perimeter with spit-roasted meat, hand-pulled cider, and honeycakes wrapped in wax paper. Children cheer with sticky fingers and wide eyes as riders thunder past in a blur of color and motion, spearing rings, tossing javelins, and vaulting from saddle to saddle in maneuvers of heart stopping daring. The games shift throughout the day: ring-spearing at full gallop, spear-throwing contests judged by distance and precision, daring jousts that send splinters flying, and intricate relay courses that test both speed and control. Spectators shout themselves hoarse as favorites rise and falter, hoisting drinks and waving ribbons painted flags of dyed cloth of support.

Not all who find their way to a Festival of Awakening come to celebrate. Secrets, carried by careless tongues, have a way of finding their way to the wrong ears. And so, inevitably, the anti-mage zealots and the hunters arrive.

Some come in force. They storm the gatherings in overwhelming numbers, tearing through the festivals in open attacks. Most of the revelers scatter in panic as the anti-mage movement descends, crushing the arcane madness that festers so blatantly in the open—though some may stand and fight. In their wake, the music falters and the air sours with fear and blood.

Others arrive in silence. They slip through the fringes of the festival like smoke through a cracked window, unnoticed by the revelers and the ever watchful mage-guards. They come to observe, to learn, to better understand their enemy. They study faces, catalog names, take stock of the various talents and indagate weaknesses. There will be a time—not now, but soon—to make better use of this information.

For knowledge, after all, is the greatest weapon.