Once in a great King’s Court there came a Philosopher of the Far Off Shore.

The King greeted his arrival with barrels of the sweetest wines and mountains of cloud-like bread while having his servants treat the philosopher as his own son. And so, the land made merry in revelry for the grand gift that had fallen on their domain. This went on for three days and a night until the Philosopher, loose of tongue and gut alike, asked a simple question during one of the hourly blood duels.

“What are your pieces of Violence” he queried, holding his cup out for more wine as a devious shade came unto his greater self.

The King sat back and scratched at his beard, then with the flick of his wrist the entire fighting ring ceased to be. Red refreshment splashed upon the heavenly silks of the wizened one as a silver jug clattered from a servant’s fainting hand.

“Violence is immediate,” he stated with a boisterous tone, his voice echoing throughout the silenced theatre as he looked to his guest “It hasn’t the time to decide.”

The King turned back towards the dueling field, a slight grin crawling upon his composure. Sitting silently and slightly frowning, The Philosopher set his gaze upon those around the immense ring. None dared to even breathe after the King’s act, not the lowly Servants, not the headstrong Nobles, and not even the lesser Lords. Cowed, though all their selves stood proudly to the Philosopher’s eye, even those few with mantles martialed themselves to silence. Then, the King lazily held up his chalice for more wine, a servant’s almost rabid jump to bring the desired drink shattering the monolithic silence.

And so, festivities continued with conversation and merriment springing to take back its claim. During the renewed duels, a Demon of the Form was lured into the ring by an especially desperate mage; a thing of a million drooling, gnashing mouths and uncountable bladed limbs ever shifting from fashion to shape and then manifestation all more deadly than the first. The mage didn’t manage to escape, much like his opponent and many warriors sent to meet it, only for throats to open and limbs shred, all while bets were made and challengers arrived from countless shores. The King himself even raised an eyebrow at one who managed to navigate atop the writhing mass, only for the fool to fall right into the abomination.

Sipping again at his wine, the Philosopher soon grew bored of watching the wanton slaughter and, again, turned towards the King who was equally boring of the company an impeccably groomed concubine tried to offer him. Asking with a neutral tongue, the Philosopher questioned “And as for the second?”

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The King paused a moment, his brow slightly furrowing, and then, after shooing away the harlot, grasped a small, clear orb for a moment. Two servants laboriously brought forth a silver pool, as wide as a man is tall, filled with water so clear most would assume it empty if left to rest. As it sat down with a great clunk, the water splashing about yet never escaping, the king leaned over and gestured for the Philosopher to follow.

The King’s golden finger lightly tapped the center of the pool, a multitude of ripples rapidly fleeing his touch. The waves ran into the walls, then each other, and then chaos befell the pool as its surface slowly faded into the fire and brimstone of a burning Shore. Clouds of smog fled as to give both a clear view of the carnage beneath.

Broad shouldered Warriors in roaring crimson and commanding gold, a vain attempt to mimic the majesty of the King’s garb, clashed mightily in rigid formation against the airy and whimsical chaos of forest green skirmishers which danced out from the blazing tree line. Behind the disorderly front aimed lines of men touting the metallic mage-arms, their blasts of blue flame scorching the foliage all the while arrows and more esoteric things struck out against the advance. The cries of wounded and dying almost drowning out living as flesh and self in turn were mangled. Swift woodsmen tried all that they could to hamper His soldiers, yet the tide of blood and fire still advanced one way, towards the greatest of Trees to ever be. Its body towered over even the greatest of mountains, its many branches being as wide as castles, and yet smoldering could be seen already growing on its steel bark.

“What happens here” questioned the Philosopher with an almost bored tone and neutral features, yet his self imperceptibly quaked.

“Veltmer’s lord failed to pay homage to my simplest of demands” replied the King as he lazily crushed a grape between his teeth “Is this not another piece, that of scale?”

“But scale does not only imply great in size.” the Philosopher retorted quickly with a chosen tone “Is the common soldier’s violence within this great and terrible war that which you illuminate as well?”

“You misunderstand, this battle is but the smaller portion” stated the King with so little care for the lives which were being lost that even a demon might balk. “The largest being between me and the one rudely listening in on us”

“Curse you, Demon of Man,” hissed a lilting voice like wind creeping through the canopy with the musicality of a flute “Die for your sins against my hearth!”

Not but a heartbeat later, an arrow most dire flew from the Greatest of Tree’s roots with death in its wake and fury leading its path. The Philosopher started forming a ward in but a blink, and yet found many firmly wrapped around himself and throughout the theatre, not having been before. The one thing unguarded was the King himself, still sipping wine on his throne as the arrow fit to shatter shores sunk towards his chest.

A wave of light burst forth from the strike as a boom shook the palace to its foundation. Yet, when all was still once more, there he sat with a frown most deep, a sigh echoing in the again silent hall. “I respected you greatly, oh Lord of Veltmer, for what you had cultivated among all of Man… and yet you insult me first with daring to not kneel and then with this falsehood?!”

Parting his lips in a snarl beyond beasts, his words sundered the golden tapestries hanging around the arena, and many a cowering self flickered in that white-hot fury. The wood fruitlessly came alive with all manner of steel thorns and iron branches, a flowering dome burgeoning to meet the monster that was glaring it down.

“Philosopher, you have been shown two pieces of my violence, yet there is a third” said He while turning towards the Philosopher, nothing more than a tensed calm claiming his expression and voice “As a sign of my respect for your exalted shore, I will tell of it once”

His hand plunged toward the great tree with power mantled around a fist of glowing gold, even the Philosopher’s self writhing from the dread might, and as he cast both, shores trembled with the words “It is forever until I win!”