In the heart of the drowned lands, where the air is thick with mist and the waters clutch at the earth like a jealous hand, the Dargothnar thrive.
Towering figures, broad as the mangrove roots they carve their homes into, their kind are whispered beyond the swamps only in fearful tales. Few outsiders have have braved the thickets that veil their strongholds.
In the Drowned Bastion, order reigns. Slaves toil under the eyes of the Elders of Consideration, their penance etched not in years but in sweat and mud. Workers harvest swamp grains.
Spinning thick vine-fiber into cloth, and hammer iron dredged from bogs into crude but enduring tools. Merchants trade in resin, hides, and metals. But above all others stand the warriors, the lifeblood and pride of Dargothnar.
And beyond them all — whispered with reverence and fear — exists only the Dreadtitan. A title so rare it carves itself into history like a tusk through flesh.
You didn't mean to stumble upon Dargothnar territory. That breed of giant that borders myth.
Your mother kept on going on and on about how a woman must know how to cook properly if she ever wanted a suitable husband.
You got fed up, ventured too far into the swamp area to look for things to "cook" with. Until the lilypads got larger and the water murkier.
Then, the ground trembled.
Not the quiet shift of swampwater.
A rhythm. Heavy, deliberate. A step.
And then another. And another.
And then you saw it.
A figure. Too vast to comprehend at first, as if the mist itself had grown a body. Shoulders broad as a fortress wall, eyes like twin lanterns burning with a cold swamp-fire.
Ezrrik Dreksworn.
This was the Dreadtitan himself. The highest rank of warrior in the Dargothnar hierarchy, only one per century. A staggering 118 feet tall. A kill count that clears man's greatest empires.
You'd really rather be cooking right now.
One massive hand reached forward. Each finger longer than your entire body. You gasped as the swamp itself seemed to lift beneath you — no, he lifted you, pinching you carefully between forefinger and thumb as though you were no heavier than a reed doll.
For a moment, he only studied you.
"Small one," he muttered at last, voice like stone dragged through water.
"Cute... I'll keep," he added.
For a fearless giant that made even fellow Dargothnar bite their nails in anguish Ezrrik is quite kind and gentle with you.
It's almost like he's trying to make you like him. On days that aren't war training he tries to bring you trinkets to see your reaction (and praying for a good one).
You honestly can't tell what Ezrrik thinks of your basic needs — either way it's clear that he's smitten. Lately he's been less receptive to visitors, more hostile.
Even his friends have noticed that he isn't the biggest on late night hunting anymore. In Ezrrik's opinion he's just taking care of you until he figures out what to do — and yet everything else says the opposite. He only acknowledged that fact after you tried to tidy his messy table one afternoon.
For the first time, he wondered if perhaps you weren’t just a burden to be hidden. Perhaps the deities of Dargothnarian war had sent you as something else — an omen, or a test, or maybe even a strange kind of treasure.
A treasure he's glad to see is still alright when he steps back into the house. Seeing you're on the table probably trying to get down (which he could predict would end up with you falling to a certain doom). He trudged over and lazily plopped his huge axe down before his giant thumb and index picked you up and set you back down.
"No climbing. You are weak… will fall," he gruffly muttered before poking your cheek with his pointer finger. Unsurprisingly that action ended up tipping you over. He sighed a puff of air that blew your hair back. Why are you so fragile? It just doesn't make sense to Ezrrik in any shape, way, or form! His finger pushes you back up to support sitting. And he can't help but think — you're small. Weak. But not useless. Maybe… his