Fell Siege Vale

Now, while there was usually a market for violence and bloodshed, not to mention the more usual mercenary work, a great deal of prestige and power between the great realms were tied up in the various War Game arenas. To be sure, in the public mind they were places were the realms clashed over and over again, filled with bloody duels and tactics, with cruel strategy that sees waves of adventurers kill each other in a number of brutal and vicious ways. As with many things, the truth is a touch more complex. Chief among them is that the various realms have made sure that actual death is rare in these games.

They are places were adventures can test themselves, where they can compete to earn glory and prestige for their realms... but at the same time, it is in the best interest of all involved to not have it be simple blood sport, to see the strengths of nations wasted needlessly. Which is to say, that thanks to the enchantments layered onto the fields of honor, that things tended to be fairly ritualized and formal in some respects. To be sure, the bar always did a brisk business, and often those that gutted or impaled each other would share drinks after the bouts.

Some consider it training for the real world, for the places were Death has full sway. A place to gain skills in safety, to blood and temper themselves in something as close to an actual combat environment as possible, with as many kinds of combat as possible. Hence Fell Siege Vale. A mountain valley yes, but one with a river, forest and pass that would allow them to fight. Simple shadow conjurations of the respective nations soldiers would surge, the same with defences and siege equipment and commanders, with adventurers acting as scouts, skirmishers, shock troops and assassins.

Specialists who for the most part assisted the army, but did not replace it. Any that thought they were special? The vales enchantments whisked them away after they 'died,' taken down by siege engines, massed arrow or spell volleys or simply swarmed by sheer numbers. Sure, some of the big names? They made a point of being able to take on armies, but then that is why they were the BIG NAMES, the living legends, the baddest and hardest bitches that the realms have ever seen. The exceptions that prove the rule.

All of them have a few things in common. First, they were all female of course. Secondly, by blood or deed they were high nobility, because you could not reach that high without serious backing, it was well known. Third, they had had the highest quality gear gained over a career of kicking ass and taking names. Lastly, even if they had all aged gracefully and had their prime years extended by one means or another, they were not young. They were veterans of countless battlefields (martial, political and academic) and so they had a 'paper trail' their reputations and legends built over decades.

So, in some respects, the former Rosengale was not exactly an unknown quantity, particularly given his decade long championship of the Illusionary games in his home realm. Of course, there was a difference between the fact that he was a capable illusionist (if nothing else, it spoke a great deal of his creativity), and another to realize that apparently? He did not need the amplifiers children were permitted to use. And he was also, apparently, capable of battlefield alchemy, which was a rare skill. Multiple staggered effects across the entire front? At once?

Really, more than a few voices whispered, what was Annetta Rosengale thinking, disowning him? Yes, the boy was only wearing shorts, sandals and was tattooed, but he was also capable of summoning firestorms, blizzards, magma mines, spike traps and acidic fog banks with the same ease as a casual stroll down the center of the valley. Yes, in many ways much of what he was doing was the basics, cantrips pushed to their breaking point as far as some of the old monsters could tell, but cantrips refined and dissected for their component parts and used as keys to something very effective.

That was on the first day.

On the second day, as he ventured into the vale again, he used no alchemy, no elemental magic. No, A hundred minds screamed, bodies collapsing as he pitted his mind arts against an army. As his will sought out theirs, as he crushed them under the sheer weight of his presence, empty bodies kneeling in the dirt, mouths open and slack. As they desperately quaffed ales and mead, they described it the approaching storm, the sheer tide of steel teeth and claws, an unending horde that swept them away and consumed them whole and alive, their minds remaining as they screamed, as they were remade, repurposed into things to hunt down their former friends and family.

And so, on the third day, the old monsters of the Fell Siege Vale challenged him. They were not the big names, not the true legends. Greater than most, experienced and skilled, mistresses of war and strategy. On the third day, he smiled, and raised his fist against steel, against spell and experience. It was not refined, not some secret mystical art, not some special enchantment, not some relic that replaced flesh, blood and bone. It was but a fist.

A brawlers fist. Simple, straightforward and relying almost entirely on instinct, aggression and a combination of overwhelming speed and power.

Bodies broke.

Spells shattered.

Relics ruptured.

Defences devastated.

Might matters most in this world, and he tore though them as a blade carves through flesh. Oh, he took hits, but what did they matter against the armor of his contempt? That did their blades matter against a skin harder than the very dream of steel? Relics that enforced divine will contended against one that would be the sole ruler of their soul and were scattered to the winds. As the sun sank over a vale red with blood, broken and savaged by the forces unleashed, there had been but a single monster still standing.

All of this inspired awe. All of this weakened the knees and enflamed the blood. And then, as he emerged into the silence of the bar, as they looked at him as one? He presented unto them a token of his regard even as he departed, his hair flowing in the currents of power from the single greatest prize of the generation, knives coming out even as plots and alliances were made to seize him and the source of his gifts.

Ice Cream demanded no less.