The Redfield Gala

Dusk drew near on the Valotus Range. Long streaks of smoky red streaked along the clouds, curling into crimson and pink near the edges. A cool chill hung in the air. Across the earth, every shadow stretched away as the sun sank further towards the horizon. Night would soon fall and Autumn would soon phase into Winter. Acres upon acres of fertile farmland sprawled outwards in every direction, only interrupted by the occasional drystone wall. No plants remained, and all of the soil was ploughed. Mere days before, the last of the harvest had been gathered; bountiful as always, as it had been for centuries. Still, the farming season had not yet concluded. Preparations for next year were already underway. These plentiful fields were not earned without strife.

A man on horseback rode by, both rider and steed obscured beneath a long black veil. Theirs was a duty of both pride and shame. The horse wore a harness, from which two ropes trailed behind before knotting around the ankles of a bleeding corpse. Much of his face was missing, left behind for the crows and the worms in the place which he fell. His chest too had been opened and carved with deliberate incisions from capable physicians to encourage as much blood loss as possible. A scarlet smear painted the soil behind him. Life and death are intertwined, and one cannot exist without the other.

In life, there were few who would afford this man sympathy. A savage cutthroat who wore a façade of decency, which he used to butcher a sleeping family in their own cottage. Perhaps the first commendable thing that this creature had done was to die in the Redfield Gala. Now, his scum-blood could bring life where it once only thieved it. An offer of death in this sacred ritual was more than he deserved.

Behind the hallowed corpse, walked the one who had slain him. They called him Ilfand, for that was the rune that had burnt itself onto his flesh at birth. None of his own ilk would stand beside him; his name meant ruin and his destiny was clear. Those less superstitious stayed away for another reason. Ilfand towered head, shoulders, and chest above the crowd. His arms seemed capable of ripping a man in two, and his eyes burned with the desire to do so. Pale blue skin snatched the fading rays of sun and muffled them into shadows. From his chin, a bushy white beard was now matted and stained red. A few chunks of the corpse still clung to it, tangled in the hairs. Ilfand did not care. Not all savages are created equal; some are cowards who yearn to kill in underhanded manners, others are bloodthirsty monsters who slaughter without second thought. Ilfand was the latter. Clutched in his colossal hands was a weapon perfectly tailored for such a brute - a mace of extraordinary size, its iron still dripping from its last indulgence. Few men could hope to lift it, even fewer could hope to wield it, and none could resist its hunger.

Pacing a cautious distance behind the monster was a huge crowd. They were perfectly split in two, none daring to step on the sacred bloody trail that now seeped into the earth. At the forefront, the Honourable Nobles, Flame-Touched Scions, and the Priests who sponsored the festival rode on horseback with banners aflutter. Each aristocrat was flanked by at least two armoured warriors. Bringing up the rear, a boisterous mob of common folk marched on foot. They chanted songs, blew horns, and shouted enthusiastically, exhilarated by the battles they had already seen. One would be forgiven for assuming they were going to war. Whilst their apprehension of Ilfand was apparent, it was not enough to overcome their fascination. Most folk had never seen a Goliath of his descent, and all were awestruck by his prowess for violence.

Eventually, the final venue drew near. A small, temporary arena, made from wooden palisades and flanked by tiered benches sat before the fervent crowd. A special elevated section was reserved for the aristocrats and their retainers. As the ultimate battleground became visible to the raucous mob, a thunderous cheer tore through the air. They were bloodthirsty. An ominous chant began to form amidst their ranks.

"Ilfand, Ilfand, Ilfand." The crowd recited in unison, ringing so loud that even the gods would know his name.

The monster's face did not flinch, nor did his lips curl into a smile. The adoration of the mob meant nothing to him. Nobody knows what, if anything, was going through his head at that moment. He simply continued to walk. Perhaps he recounted the foes he had massacred to get to where he was now: the cutthroat who murdered a family, the disgraced knight, the drunken sell-sword, the cultist whose tongue babbled madness until the bitter end. Their blood now painted over the Valotus Range. Only the knight had posed any threat to Ilfand, but even that affair was more akin to an execution than a battle. Whoever was next to face the brute would be tested at least. They, like Ilfand, would have vanquished four other competitors.

As the convoy reached the final arena and the crowd began to find their seats, another assembly came into view. Similarly, they trailed behind a veiled horse and rider that dragged a bleeding cadaver behind them. Sacrifices are necessary, and blood must flow. Only a few steps behind the hooded duo was the other blessed champion that remained, the one who would be Ilfand's opponent. Or, perhaps, his victim.

A gentle rumbling reached the arena first - the sound of a clamouring crowd singing in reverence of a killer. They drew closer, and the rumbling turned into shaking. The arena seemed to tremble from the passion of the oncoming mob. In an instant, the benches were cleared as nearly everyone rushed to glimpse the new fighter. To no surprise, he was smaller than Ilfand, but by no measure a small man. Wiry black hair had been tied back into a tight knot and scattered flecks of blood peppered his face and shirt. Where Ilfand wore a violent countenance, this warrior was focussed. An unfettered intensity fired from his eyes, locked on nothing but the stage for his next battle. In his hands, he held a long spear with a leaf-shaped head. Blood stained the metal.

Unlike most of the other competitors in the Redfield Gala, he was not here against his will, nor had he done anything to invoke the law's ire. The man was an outsider, an Orchard Bandit, who came from the Almaran Groves beyond the walls. Out there, few people die of old age. All have seen true monsters and real hardship. For him, the festival was a way to leave that world behind. His likely demise did not matter to him like it would to a normal man; beyond the walls, every breath drawn is a gift.

The crowd seemed to burst from the stands. Every inch of the arena was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with eager spectators desperate to witness further bloodshed. An excited buzz rippled through the crowd, then erupted into a tumultuous cacophony of shrieks and cheers as the competitors entered the pit. The earth's thirst would soon be indulged. Ilfand and the outsider locked eyes instantly. Both knew that one would not see another sunrise, yet neither were afraid. To them, the world was silent: no screaming fans, no thunderous applause, no screeching horns. All that existed was one another. As the Righteous Priest of Alsteron stepped forward to proclaim the sacred rites, neither man's gaze wavered.

"Celebrants, one and all, welcome to the 972nd Annual Redfield Gala." The cleric declared, ushering the crowd to silence. He continued, "These plentiful fields were not earned without strife. Life and death are intertwined, and one cannot exist without the other. Sacrifices are necessary, and blood must flow. Let us now pay homage to the brave warriors who offer their lives for our future, and those who gave their lives for our past."

At that moment, a volley of explosions rung out overhead, filling the evening air with thick red smoke. A brigade of mages stood just outside of the arena, with staffs and tomes in hand. They had given the signal for the festivities to begin.

Ilfand and the outsider began to pace around the edges of the pit, staring one another down and hoping to detect a lapse in their opponent's defence. The monster had afforded this measure of respect to no other foe; he had simply charged across the arena and brutally bludgeoned them into the earth. It soon became apparent why Ilfand was more cautious. He feigned a rush forward in an attempt to make his adversary flinch, but instead nearly paid dearly for it. The outsider was not so easily shaken. He gripped his spear and jabbed it right towards the marauding giant, missing his throat by a hair as Ilfand jolted backwards. Gasps spilled from the stands. Inspired by making the brute retreat, the outsider pressed the advantage. Thrusting his spear as he pushed forward, he revealed to the crowd what they did not yet know - Ilfand could bleed. The spear tip gashed his chest, grazed his stomach, and scratched his left leg. Just like the men he had crushed, the monster's blood was red. It soaked into his clothing and dripped on to the hungry soil. Ilfand snarled with fury as the pain stabbed into his body. The outsider maintained his fanatical focus. Ferociously, the giant barrelled forward, swinging his mace with enough force to smash down a castle's walls. His recklessness was punished. The outsider's spear cut deep into his arm, sending a crimson downpour to the yearning earth. Then, a second attack skimmed Ilfand's cheek, leaving a straight and narrow line of scarlet across his icy blue face. It seemed as if his name was about to become his fate.

The outsider had, however, made one crucial mistake in his assessment. Ilfand's greatest attribute was undoubtedly his strength, but it was not his only talent. Those who had followed him through his previous battles were far more impressed with the beast's speed - he moved like a man half his size. Injured once again, Ilfand moved back, and the outsider moved closer. With his back to the wall, he began to circle away from the outsider's dominant left, greatly reducing his ability to land powerful blows. Suddenly, the outsider feinted an attack to the right and quickly followed up with a lunging thrust that should have skewered the monster. Instead it collided with the palisade wall. With uncanny speed, Ilfand had stepped off to the right. The outsider was exposed and off-balance. Ilfand swung his huge mace into his foe's right elbow, evoking a sickening crunch and pained howl. Staggering back and dragging a mangled arm beside him, the outsider made a desperate thrust which missed wildly. An uproarious cheer bellowed from the fervent mob as Ilfand slammed his heavy bludgeon into the outsider's chest, crushing his sternum instantly. Now twitching on the ground, the once hopeful outsider sputtered out blood and tried in vain to climb back to his feet. All the crowd yearned for was death - none commended his tenacity in the face of certain death. None except Ilfand. The huge man stepped forward and gave a courteous nod to his valiant foe. No other had earned the titan's respect. His eyes leaked sorrow; it seemed wrong to slay such a courageous warrior, but he was already dead.

Ilfand raised up his mace one last time and made the final offering to the Redfield Gala.