Standing in the middle of the circle of warriors—both giants and Bretons—Torin gave the giantess an intrigued look, his head tilting slightly.
"Draugrath." He tasted the word. "Is that what you call yourselves?"
The giantess nodded, her braids swaying with the motion.
"Ancient tongue. It means 'Those Who Tower' in your language."
Torin couldn't help but chuckle, the sound low and genuine despite the tension crackling in the air.
"Your height sets you apart from us. And you take pride in that."
He began to channel his magicka, the familiar warmth spreading through his limbs, his muscles swelling, his bones elongating. His body began to change, growing larger and stronger, his frame expanding until he stood eye-to-eye with the giantess.
The Bretons in the circle gasped, some of them stepping back, their faces pale with shock. The giants, however, only watched with narrowed eyes, their expressions unreadable.
"We don't care much for height," Torin said, his voice deeper now, resonating with the power of the spell. "We have other tools to make up for our lack in size."
The giantess smirked, a flicker of respect in her pale eyes.
"The Clever Craft." She extended her hand, palm open, and lightning arced across her fingers—blue-white tendrils that crackled and snapped, illuminating her weathered face. "Jhunal did not bless you alone."
Torin extended his own hand, palm open. Fire, frost, and lightning danced around each other in his grasp, the three elements twisting and weaving like living things—a miniature storm contained in the palm of his hand.
"Not all blessings are given equally."
The giantess snorted, a sound of amusement and challenge. She clenched her fist, the lightning vanishing.
"Indeed. But enough talk." Her eyes hardened, her grin turning predatory. "Now we fight."
She didn't waste any time after that.
She raised her shield to protect herself and charged toward Torin, her massive feet pounding against the black stone, her axe raised high. The ground shook with each step, and the chanting of the giants grew louder, more intense—a primal rhythm that seemed to pulse through the very air.
Torin maintained a calm smile, his posture relaxed despite the oncoming freight train of muscle and steel bearing down on him. He raised his spear, and without hesitation, hurled it toward the charging giantess with all his strength.
The weapon flew like a bolt of lightning, a blur of ancient bone and cold steel. The giantess reacted swiftly—faster than anyone her size had any right to—raising her shield to intercept the incoming projectile.
The spear struck the shield dead center.
The impact was thunderous, a crack that echoed across the beach and sent a shockwave rippling through the air. The spear lodged itself deep into the shield's surface, and instantly, ice exploded outward from the point of impact—a spreading web of frost that encased the shield and climbed up the giantess's arm, freezing half of it solid.
The giantess staggered, her charge halted, her frozen arm hanging uselessly at her side. She stared at the ice, then at Torin, her expression full of wonder.
She stared at the ice, then at Torin, her expression full of wonder—a flicker of genuine respect that softened the hard lines of her face.
"Impressive weapon," the giantess muttered, her breath misting in the cold air.
Then her arm snapped to the side with a violent wrench, shattering the ice encasing it. Shards of frost flew in all directions, glittering like diamonds in the fading sunlight, and the giantess didn't hesitate for a moment before deciding to discard the shield entirely.
It clattered to the ground, still half-encased in ice, and she flexed her freed hand, testing its mobility.
"Good deal for me," she said with a grin, brandishing her axe and resuming her charge toward Torin.
Torin's eyes narrowed, his mind already calculating. She's faster than she looks... I can't let this fight drag on.
"We'll see about that," he said, not bothering to recall Skaldrfong. Instead, he quickly cast Ebonyflesh, the spell settling over his skin like a second layer of armor, darkening his flesh to the color of polished obsidian. Then he wove Greater Haste, the magic quickening his movements, sharpening his reflexes.
He rushed to meet the giantess halfway.
Soon enough, the two were in swinging range. The giantess made the first move—she had the reach advantage, thanks to the axe, and she used it well. Her weapon's blade flew straight toward his neck in a wide, powerful arc, the kind of blow that would decapitate a normal man.
Torin instantly ducked, the axe whistling over his head, and retaliated with a fist that flew straight toward her midsection.
The giantess's free hand instantly caught his wrist, her grip like iron. She was just about to bring the handle of her axe down on Torin's head—a crushing blow that would have shattered his skull, ebony flesh or not—when his clenched fist suddenly opened up.
A telekinetic blast erupted from his palm, slamming into her stomach with the force of a battering ram. The giantess let out a grunt of pain, her grip on his wrist loosening, and she staggered back a few steps, her boots carving furrows in the black stone.
By the time she gathered her bearings, Torin was closing the distance again, his hand thrusting toward her as if he held something in it—a weapon she couldn't see.
Confused by his actions, she judged he was too far away for his hands to reach her. Her axe was already rising for another swing, her eyes tracking his movements with the precision of a seasoned warrior.
And that's when Skaldrfong materialized in his hand.
The spear appeared from nothing, its tip gleaming in the fading light, and it was only a hair's breadth away from her throat. The giantess froze, her axe suspended mid-swing, her pale eyes fixed on the ancient bone blade that had appeared from nowhere.
Torin held the spear steady, his breathing even, his expression calm.
"Yield," he said quietly.
The giantess didn't respond immediately. She simply stared at Torin, her pale blue eyes fixed on his face, her expression unreadable. The spear tip hovered at her throat, steady as stone, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.
The crowd around them was silent. The giants watched with unreadable expressions, their massive forms still and patient, their chests no longer pounding with the rhythm of the chant.
The Bretons, meanwhile, stood frozen, their eyes darting nervously between the giants and the two combatants in the center of the circle. Some of them had their hands on their weapons, their knuckles white, their faces pale with barely concealed fear.
The captain licked his lips, his gaze fixed on Torin, waiting for a signal—any signal—that would tell him what to do.
Finally, a grin appeared on the giantess's face. It started small, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, and then spread until it split her weathered features like a crack in a glacier.
"So be it," she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine respect. "We talk."
Torin lowered the spear, the tension in his shoulders easing. He released the spells holding his body in its enlarged state, and his frame shrank back to its normal size—still tall for a Nord, still broad and imposing, but no longer the equal of a giant.
The giantess watched the transformation with an appraising eye, her grin never fading.
"Too bad you can't stay like that," she said, a hint of genuine regret in her voice. "You would make a good Draugrath."
Torin shook his head, turning to look at the sea stretching endlessly into the horizon. The waves crashed against the black stone beach, sending spray into the cold air, and the sun had almost finished its descent behind the western cliffs.
"I very much doubt it," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Life at the mercy of the unknown wouldn't suit me. Always chasing the next hunt, always wondering if the sea will provide or if it will take. That's not a life I'd choose."
He turned back to the giantess and smiled. "Now, how about that talk? Do you want to do this here, or would you like to guide us to your base?"
The giantess gave him a dismissive wave, her braids swaying.
"We are already at our base." She turned and began to head deeper into the island, her massive strides eating up the ground. "You follow me."
She paused after a few steps and turned around, her eyes landing on Echo, who stood beside Torin, her dark eyes fixed on the giantess with wary curiosity.
"The one who stormed the ship can come." She paused, her gaze lingering on the bear. "The beast too."
Torin nodded, placing a hand on Echo's head.
"Her name is Echo."
The giantess grunted, a sound that might have been acknowledgment.
"Echo." She tasted the word. "A good name. Strong. Simple." She turned and resumed her walk, her voice carrying over her shoulder. "Come. We have much to discuss, and the night is cold."
Following behind the giantess—Veyrga Salt-Blood, as she introduced herself—Torin, Qasim, and Echo journeyed for half an hour at a jogging pace before arriving at a spacious cave.
The entrance was wide and dark, half-hidden behind a curtain of frozen vines that hung from the cliffs like tattered banners. Veyrga pushed through them without slowing, and Torin followed, Echo at his side, Qasim close behind.
Navigating through the cave, they soon realized they were in a very deep and expansive network of tunnels. The walls were rough and uneven, carved by centuries of wind and water, but they had been widened and smoothed in places by tools—massive tools, wielded by massive hands.
Signs of life didn't take long to make themselves apparent. Torches, set in iron sconces that had been hammered into the stone, lit up the tunnel walls with a warm, flickering glow.
Murals were painted on the rock, vast and intricate, depicting sea giants hunting all manner of monstrosities from the deep—leviathans with eyes like moons, serpents with coils that could crush ships, creatures with too many limbs and too many teeth.
Soon enough, they were even able to spot children. They were roughly as tall as Torin, their grey skin marked with the same silver patterns as the adults, their eyes wide and curious as they watched the strangers pass.
The elderly were there too, sitting on carved stone benches, watching over the young ones, their faces weathered and lined but their postures still straight and proud.
Finally, they reached the end of the cave—or at least one end of it. It was more of a grotto than anything else, half sea water and half black stone. The ceiling arched high overhead, disappearing into darkness, and the water below was still and dark, reflecting the torchlight in shimmering ripples.
It was big enough to fit five of the massive longships the giants used, even if the cave's mouth wasn't high enough to allow them entry or exit. The masts of the longships, however, were down, folded neatly into the decks—a clever design that Torin couldn't help but admire.
There were at least a few dozen giants, either taking quick breaks or maintaining the ships, their deep voices rumbling in low conversation.
Torin couldn't help but hum, his eyes sweeping the grotto.
"That's clever." He nodded slowly. "No wonder the Bretons had no idea where you kept coming from. A cave network like this, with ships that can fold their masts—you could hide an entire fleet here, and no one would ever know."
The giantess replied, her voice carrying a note of grim pride.
"Even if they knew, it makes no difference. We don't fear toe-rats." She paused, her gaze sweeping the grotto. "This is how we live. Even when home, always careful, hidden. Nothing kills more Draugrath than other Draugrath."
She gestured at a large table carved from a single block of black stone, its surface smoothed and polished.
"Now we sit. We talk."
...
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