I Haven’t Been On Tumblr For Quite As Long As A Lot Of People But Over Several Years I’ve Noticed

#redemption arcs my beloved

Twitter is screenshoting us more and more often

@cat-a-holic @smol-catholic-bean @ave-immaculata @raspberryzingaaa @thebirdandhersong

Though you guys would want to know.

The Ballad of the Two Travelers: Chapter Three

light content warning for this one, there's death, violence, and mild gore

Chapter Three: Cruelty

Rowan left the blacksmith's, a slight spring in his step in spite of the gloom of the late morning. His village seemed brighter, more upbeat, somehow more alive than usual, though that might have just been the added adrenaline. He didn't let himself get excited too often; life in the Misted Vales was too dangerous and unpredictable for that, but he figured he could let his guard down for the day.

Mr. Kade, the local blacksmith, had finally agreed to let Rowan begin serving as an apprentice, starting tomorrow. Rowan had been begging the old smith for a job since he was fifteen, and now he was finally going to learn to craft tools, armor, and – this is what excited him most – weapons. Finally, he'd be able to take an active stance in the war against the blight and the giants, and he'd be able to keep his mother and sisters safe.

The wind was cool against his face, a welcome sensation against the excited flush that had come over his cheeks. A group of children ran through the streets, caught up in a game of tag or hide and seek, and their shrieking giggles added to the oddly joyful feeling in the air. The scents of something warm and sweet floated from the bakery down the street, and it felt to Rowan as though nature itself was celebrating with him. He listened for a moment, feeling the breeze against his skin and hearing the light song of a bird somewhere nearby. He hadn't heard a bird in weeks!

He heard something else, a low rumbling like thunder in the distance. A storm? It was hard to tell, it was always cloudy around these parts, which made it more difficult to predict the weather. The only totally accurate way to do so was with the aid of a wizard, and seeing as most of them had been wiped out by the giants, that wasn't exactly viable.

Others had noticed the thunder too. The birdsong had stopped, as suddenly as it started, and Rowan noticed the small creature as it fluttered away, a few stray feathers floating to the ground. He saw a couple of heads turning the direction of the rumbling. Strange, it hadn't subsided, even after a few seconds. If anything it was getting louder, more rhythmic, almost like.....

Footsteps.

Rowan's breath caught in his chest, but before anything, he heard a cry go up from the western watchtower:

“Giants! Coming this way, from the Northwest!”

That was the push he needed. Rowan broke into a full sprint towards the tower, pushing past the chaos that had already broken out in the streets, as mothers called for their children, merchants tried to pack up their things in a haste, and the few warriors of the town rushed towards the edge of the village.

Finally, covered in a layer of sweat (whether from fear or exertion, Rowan couldn't tell), he reached the tower. No guard stood at the door, which let him fly up the winding stone staircase with no restriction. He reached the top, where Beren, the watchman, looked to the horizon with a hardened expression on his face. He held a massive warbow in his calloused hands, and his dark eyes were clouded with something, fear or acceptance or anticipation.

“Where?” was the only word from Rowan's mouth, when the dark-skinned man pointed in the distance. Rowan squinted for a moment, then he saw it.

They were a little over a mile away, and roughly fourteen in number; women standing around 100 feet tall and clad in armors of leather. They carried weapons so large that Rowan felt chills just looking at them; the smallest knife he could see was the length of a fully-grown man. They walked slowly, at a methodical pace and clustered together, but anyone could tell they were making a beeline straight towards the village. They'd be on top of them in a matter of minutes

“Rowan,” the watchman said in his deep, calming voice. He laid a hand on Rowan's shoulder, and he managed to keep his voice steady in spite of the approaching storm. “Find your family,” he said in a quiet voice. “We will endure this.”

Rowan nodded, though he felt deep down that the old watchman couldn't have been more wrong. He quickly turned, and ran.

“Mama! Jodi!”

Rowan's screams went unheard against the screams of the other villagers and the rumbling footsteps of the giants, which grew louder every second. The ground shook, and dust filled the air.

“Mama! Jodi! Please, where are you?”

He thought he heard someone call his name, he strained his ears trying to make it out, but he grew distracted by the sight of old Mr. Kade, towering over the cacophonous crowd and pushing through with a massive spear in his hands. He was going the opposite direction of the crowd, towards the giants, and the sight of the man drew many an eye.

At least, until the sight of the first giantess came into view at the edge of the village. Then everyone froze.

She was ruggedly beautiful, an athletic woman who stood level with the watchtower, with tan skin, short brown hair, and a scar over her left eye. In one hand she held a warhammer as long as she was tall, with a head big enough to crush a carthorse beneath it.

In the other hand was a figure, tall and muscular, arms pinned at either side of his body by the woman's fist.

Beren.

Rowan – and the crowd – could see the kind old watchman squirming and struggling. They could hear his yells of defiance as he cursed his captor, and they saw the cold expression on the giant woman's face as she considered the warrior in her hand.

The crowd watched, frozen in horrified fascination, as other giant women appeared at her sides, with their massive weapons in hand and the disgusted expressions on their faces as they looked over the people of Rowan's home. They could see the anticipation and hatred in the cruel brightness of their eyes, and in the way they flexed their fingers against their massive weapons (yet still not as large as the weapon of the first giantess), waiting for some kind of signal.

The giantess at the front, who held Beren like a child with her doll, was still for a moment. It was evident that she was the leader of the party, judging by the glances from her companions and the massive size of her weapon. All that could be heard now was Beren's strained screams and the low, deep breathing of the giants as they waited... waited... waited.

Then the leader calmly placed her thumb over Beren's face, and pressed down, tightening her fist.

There was a dull snap and crunch, and Beren's screams fell away. A few dark drops fell from that horrible fist, and there was a moment of tense, sickening silence.

Rowan had known Beren all his life. He told the village children stories, taught the boys to use a bow and the girls how to swing a sword. That limp, bloody thing, falling to the ground as the giantess opened her hand, couldn't have been Beren....

A hand gripped his shoulder from behind, and he heard the voice of his mother, shaky but determined;

“Time to go. Come on.” Rowan felt a quick birth of relief; at least his family was safe. There was still a chance they could make it out of this.

Of course, right at that moment, the giantess said something, and her kin surged forward. The screams of the crowd pierced the air, and Rowan felt a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach as he reached for his mother's hand, but was jostled back by the panicking crowd.

The next few minutes were a blur. Afterward Rowan would only barely recall the scent and sight of something burning, the squelching, crunching sound of his fellow villagers being crushed underfoot. He would somewhat remember a bolt of brilliant blue lightning, and an earsplitting bang followed by an scream that was nearly as loud. He would vaguely recall the leader of the giantesses calling out “You know the drill; kill the men, take the women,” along with the surreal sight of shadows like hands, hands big enough to hold even the largest of men with room to spare, reaching down and plucking people up from the ground.

He'd remember ducking and weaving, tears leaking from his face as he tried to stay calm and find his mother, and he could remember the terrifying sight of gargantuan feet ripping through houses like they were made of sand.

He wouldn't remember how he made it past the wreckage flying through the air, or how he got the massive cut on his forehead. In fact, of all the things that happened on that terrible day, he'd only remember three things as clear as day:

FIRST.

He'd remember the sight of his little sister getting plucked into the air by the back of her dress, her legs kicking frantically and her blond hair flying in the wind as she was dropped into the bag of a giantess dressed shoulders down in steel armor, and he'd remember his mother, coming up out of nowhere and pushing him into the flaming wreckage of a nearby building. Rowan would always remember how his mother met his eyes, an unspoken order to stay put upon her weathered face as a ironclad hand wrapped itself around her waist and jerked her from the ground. He would never forget the horrible minutes that passed, the sounds of screaming and crying slowly subsiding as the remaining townsfolk were either kidnapped or crushed underfoot like bugs. He'd never forget the scents of death in his nose as he crouched, shivering, in the remaining corner of the wrecked house.

He sat there holding back tears and sobs, the sounds of thunder-like footsteps and crackling houses ringing in his ears as the giantesses tore through the remaining buildings, each one searching for any humans who'd hid in their houses and either killing them on the spot, tossing them into her bag, or popping them into her mouth without hesitation. He saw it happen twice, through the gaping hole where the upper floor of the house had been, in ruined houses just beyond the one Rowan hid in, cowered in. Two people he'd known, little more than a bulge down a throat and a burp.

He sat there in silence, praying to all the gods that they wouldn't find him, that his mother and sister were still alive, that he'd make it out of this somehow.

SECOND.

He remembered how the air had left his lungs as a shadow passed over the spot where he hid, and how he'd begun to shake uncontrollably as the sound of breathing, low and yet loud, filled the air around him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed himself as far as he could into the corner, and covered his hand with his mouth, as the outline of a great head came into view just above him.

There was a moment of silence, and Rowan slowly opened his eyes, unsure of what was happening.

He nearly fainted when he saw.

She loomed above him, a dark-haired giantess on her knees as she peered down into the scraps of the house. She had a wild sort of beauty, despite her massive size, with full lips, a freckled face, and dark eyes that held such melancholy in them they almost made Rowan feel pity for her.

She looked straight down at him, her face unreadable, the only thing audible save for the rumblings in the background being the quiet sounds of her and Rowan's breathing, and the muffled sounds of struggling coming from the bag at her side. Rowan's heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing grew more shallow with every second. It was purely the adrenaline rushing through him that was preventing him from vomiting right in front of her. A small part of his brain thought, somewhat stupidly, that that would be embarrassing, to vomit in front of such a beautiful creature.

“Thalia,” a lilting, feminine voice said from somewhere behind them both. “We need to get movin', that lightning spear hurt Ryette pretty badly. You find any more of 'em?”

The dark-haired giantess – Thalia, her companion had said – was silent for a moment more. Then, to Rowan's utter surprise, she said, in a deep, almost soothing voice.

“No. Let's go.”

Without warning, the giantess moved. She stood up to her full height, towering over Rowan like a goddess from the stories of old. Rowan saw her glance in his direction for half a second, before she walked away, her footsteps shaking the ground and bringing Rowan dangerously close to losing his breakfast.

Slowly, the rumblings of the warband faded away, leaving the air eerily silent.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Rowan peeked his head around the corner, taking in the sight of the town.

It had been reduced to little more than rubble and scraps. Smoke rose from the few ruins still recognizable as buildings, the rest now piles of charred wood, stone, and ash. Dark stains, lumps, and smears were visible against the ground; Rowan didn't want to think about what they had used to be.

The village was empty and silent, save for the soft sound of Rowan's own footsteps as he trudged through the dust and destruction. His breathing was ragged, and tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he walked past the imprints of massive feet and hands in the dirt.

He came to the edge of the village, and froze.

There they were, far enough that he could barely even see the glint of their weapons. How did they feel, knowing they just altered dozens of lives and ended dozens more? How did they kill so casually, so effortlessly, almost carelessly?

Rowan fell to his knees, and vomited on the ground in front of him. He tried to hold back the tears, to maintain the steady attitude he'd cultivated since he was only eleven years old.

He failed.

THIRD.

Rowan sat there, weeping. He wept for everything he'd lost in mere minutes – his family, his home, his future. Emotions filled him like a dark miasma, like a weight too heavy for any boy of eighteen to carry. He felt loneliness, he felt despair, he felt the black pit of fear, and he felt something he'd never felt before in his life.

He felt hatred.

He looked at the figures in the distance, and he hated every last one of them. And it was that very hatred which filled him more than anything else.

He felt it spread through his limbs giving him strength to stand on shaky legs and curling his hands into rage-filled fists.

He felt it in his hot, angry tears and in his forced, ragged breathing. He felt hatred coursing through him with such power and vigor, and he swore that they would pay. All of giants, and anything else that dared to stop him. Everything would burn, so help him, as his own home burned.

That hatred, was what fueled him as he limped out of his village, across the lonely fields, and into the nearby woods. He took his hatred with him, but he also left a tiny piece of it behind at the ruined village.

That little piece of hatred sprouted and grew, like a thorn-covered flower wreathed in shadow, and it was that hatred which grew like it grew in that boy's heart.

The flower was darkly beautiful; but it looked out of place, wrong, almost, as it grew throughout the village, flourishing from the hatred of the giants and the boy they had harmed.

It grew twisted and warped, creeping into the cracks and crevices of the ruins, like a malicious corruption, an evil infection.....

The flower was, as Lyra and Tristan would discover, like a foul, shadow-borne, hate-fueled Blight.

My medieval servant boy has gone missing. I’ll just use Google to see if I can find him.

increase your push up count by doing more of them

Decrease your mile run time by running faster

OMG YOU JUST REKINDLED MY MUSE FOR G/T CONTENT THANK YOU SO MUCH

thinking about Orpheus and Eurydice but g/t and i can’t tell which is worse

giant Orpheus with tiny Eurydice. she’s so small, she’s hard to spot even when one does look for her. he’s always kept a careful eye, making sure she was safe and alright, so the idea of her walking in his footsteps out of sight is terrifying to them. every one of his steps is like twenty of hers, so he has to go so. agonizingly. slow. to make sure she can keep up. he can’t even sing, because he has to concentrate all of his hearing on the softest footsteps behind him.

alternatively, tiny Orpheus and giant Eurydice. he can hear every one of her steps, when she sighs, when a large teardrop splashes onto the ground. he has to be careful to stay in her sight, but far enough ahead that he has a comfortable distance from the booming steps. he stumbles through half of it with his eyes screwed shut, worried she’ll go a step too far and he’ll get a glimpse of her form. she always did consume his entire vision, something so giant and beautiful you can’t help but look, a deeply rooted instinct he has to fight off with his entire body.

ultimately it doesn’t matter which is more tragic.

he’ll look back at her either way.

Fantasy writers creating the most in depth, complex world and storyline only to make it impossible anyone without an English degree to read:

AHHH I FINALLY FINISHED THE FIRST CHAPTER OF MY STORY!!!

I've wanted to share a g/t story with you guys for a while, and I'm so happy to finally make that dream a reality! Feedback is appreciated, and I really hope you guys enjoy! These are characters I've spent a good bit of time with in my head, and I'm so happy you guys get to meet them now!

Alright, enough talking. Without further ado, may I proudly present to you lovely g/t fans:

The Ballad of the Two Travelers

Chapter One: The Encounter

Tristan sat beside his little campfire, trying to relieve the tense, uptight feeling in his limbs. His left arm was wrapped in a poorly-done sling; the result of an unfortunate incident with a giant zombified wolf a few days prior. A twilight breeze licked at his skin, nudging little locks of dark curls from his forehead and causing the flames to sputter and twitch every now and then. He prayed that the gods would be merciful and let the wind lighten up; he was too tired to start another fire should this one be snuffed out. He leaned slightly closer to the flames, extending his right hand in an effort to regain some of the feeling in his fingers.

He'd been traveling for weeks across the Misted Vales, a heavy pack on his back and a trusty sword at his side as he made his way through the grey plains, bony forests, and murky swamps that littered the once-fertile lands. The Blight that cursed the realm was spreading, and many a village had fallen from illness and starvation in recent times. Tristan's own village was already plagued with issues of its own– constant monster attacks, lack of soldiers or protection from the now-defunct nobility, and infighting among its inhabitants – and the oncoming blight wasn't helping matters.

No one knew what had started it, but most suspected it was yet another consequence of some long-forgotten war between humanity and its many foes. The Blight was a magical disease that had run rampant in recent years, killing crops and poisoning the living, dooming them to a slow death of madness and decay before succumbing and rising again as an undead. Monsters had already been a threat in the past, but now they brought with them the added nuisance of being much harder to kill. They shrugged off wounds effortlessly, had increased stamina and strength, and they had an increased appetite for the still-living. Such horrors ravaged the Continent, and yet they all paled in comparison to the giants.

For a hundred years, the giants had harbored a relentless anger towards the humans. Groups of them ranging from as little as two to as many as 20 roamed the lands, wiping out any human settlements they could. The majority of them were the angry, vengeful wives, daughters, and sisters of the many giants who were killed in a long-forgotten war, and thus they took advantage of every opportunity they could to take their revenge against the remainder of humanity. Tristan had been lucky enough to not have encountered a giant before, but he'd met survivors of their rage; he'd heard fragmented ramblings of footsteps like thunder, great hands and ferocious roars, and villages left decimated in the wake of beings that towered over a hundred feet tall.

Life in the Continent was so deadly, in fact, that one may wonder why one so young was embarking on such a deadly journey. Indeed, Tristan often wondered the very same thing himself.

For Tristan was on a quest to the great Godbearing Mountain in the far north, where an ancient spring ran that could cure any disease, at least according to the stories he'd heard. If someone were to fetch water from the Godbearing Spring, then perhaps the curse could be undone, and the remaining humans could start afresh. The idea of traveling to the north for the spring had been passed around in the village, but what with the onslaught monsters that roamed the lands, the angry giants who stomped any human into bloody paste upon sight, and the ravenous Blight that was slowly seeping its way into the very roots of the Continent, it had been decided by the village council that a quest wasn't worth the risk. They were to hunker down and try to wait out the chaos around them, something that Tristan couldn't accept. Tristan didn't know how, but he felt deep down that those stories had to be true, that there had to be something that could be done to put an end to this madness. All it took was courage and bravery, like the heroes in the old stories... right?

So Tristan had gathered some supplies, stolen his father's old sword from under his bed, and snuck out of his little village at midnight. He'd been traveling for about two weeks, and he was beginning to regret his decision. He'd come to a rest in the Misted Vales, a wide plain of grey grass and a thick fog that covered the entire area.

Tristan glanced around him nervously. He'd heard plenty of tales about the Misted Vales, but he hadn't expected them to be so.... misty. The fire barely had an impact on the hazy air; he could barely make out anything, near or far.

The thought was not comforting to Tristan, who'd already had his fair share of uncomfortable monster encounters (his arm was testament to this) and wasn't keen on having any more. It sent shivers down his spine to think that just about anything could come from those clouds of thick fog....

Of course, at that moment, there came the sound of a rhythmic rumbling that lightly shook the ground, and a silhouette appeared in the fog, heavily obscured by the mist yet clear enough for Tristan to tell that whatever was approaching, it was close.

Tristan's heart quickened, and he felt the prickly sensation of sweat appearing on his brow. He saw a movement, and nearly fainted as the shape woman emerged from the mist, standing over 70 feet tall. As she approached, Tristan could make out wavy hair and a huge cloak that trailed lightly behind her. Each one of her steps crossed at least forty feet, her boots leaving slight impressions in the ground behind her. Her pace was eerily slow, almost relaxed, not what Tristan would have expected from a rampaging giantess, but it was terrifying nonetheless, as her eyes were hidden behind the shadows of her cowl.

The boy scrambled about on his knees as he hastily gathered his things, wincing to himself as he tried to sling his pack over his shoulder. His eyes darted about the surrounding area for potential hiding spots, areas to widen the distance between him and the approaching threat, anything, but his eyes could hardly make out anything in the thick fog.

Don't panic, he thought, you've come this far. You can handle a giant... you have to.

But as the giant woman grew closer, Tristan found his thoughts to be little comfort. Within moments, she would be on top of him.

He glanced to his left, to the simple broadsword resting a few feet away in its sheath. He hastily crawled over to it, wrapping his fingers around the plain leather-bound hilt, and mentally screaming at the prospect of drawing the sword as the giantess grew closer and closer. He adjusted his position in an effort to face the giant woman, who seemed to be even bigger than he'd guessed now that she was closer. The woman was at least 100 feet tall; the top of Tristan's head barely came up past her ankle. The sight of her leather boots was intimidating, to say the least; Tristan could almost hear the sickening crunch and feel his bones break as the thick soles pressed him into a pulp on the ground....

His hands shook as the shadow of the giantess loomed over him. There was a moment of stillness and a frightening silence, the only thing audible being the thumping of Tristan's own heart in his ears. He gazed up at her, a mixture of nervousness and curiosity filling his heart.

“Greetings, little one.”

Tristan realized with a start the giantess was speaking to him. Her voice was soft and powerful at the same time.

“I am Lyra,” she said, her voice serene as she looked down at him. “It appears that thou art alone in thy travels.”

She gracefully lowered herself down onto one knee, bowing her head slightly to meet his level a little better. Tristan nervously scooted back a few steps. “I would offer thee my companionship,” she finished.

It took a moment before his brain fully accepted what she had said.

“Um.....” he finally answered, his voice hoarse and unsure, “w-what?”

The giantess was silent for a moment. Then she lifted her cowl from her head, revealing wavy brown hair and a fair face with amber-colored eyes. She affixed those eyes upon Tristan now, and her lips curved into a soft smile.

“To travel at all in these broken lands is a trial for even my own kind. Blight, beasts, and monsters alike roam about, seeking prey for food or for pleasure to cross their paths. To do so requires courage, wits, and just a bit of foolishness, as well as trusted friends to watch one's back against the dangers of the world. Many of my own kind have been claimed by death, even with all these things.

“And yet thou,” she said, curiously tilting her head, “appear to be alone. In a world where all wish for naught but the destruction of those such as thou, thou hast dared to cross these lands alone. I would not wish the deaths of any in this land, especially not one as ador–” She paused, and bit her lip before finally saying, “admirable as thou. Therefore, I offer thee myself as a companion.”

Tristan didn't respond. He couldn't, he was paralyzed from fright and shock. A giantess was talking to him, and so casually, as if she wasn't arguably the most dangerous, terrifying thing Tristan could encounter at this time.

“Oh, art thou wounded, little one?” she was asking now, indicating his arm with a finger that was surely as long as he was tall. Despite the sympathetic tone in her voice, Tristan cringed, praying internally that she would decide he wasn't worth the trouble and that she would leave him alone.

Of course, it wasn't his day for his prayers to be answered. The giantess leaned closer, her hand now about a yard away from his face.

“Do not panic, little traveler,” the giantess said in a soft voice. “I only wish to get a better look....”

Tristan's breath caught in his chest as the giant girl gently brought her hands on either side of him, the warm, fleshy surface of her right palm gently pressing into him and scooping his body into her left hand. He was being lifted, lifted into the air while the giant girl gently nudged him into the middle of her palm. Before he could fully react, he was already at face level with the giantess (although the term mouth level would be more accurate), and could hear his own heartbeat thumping wildly in his ears.

The giant girl stared at him for an unnerving moment, those amber eyes seeming to look right into the depths of his comparatively tiny soul. They were unreadable and terrible, and yet, beautiful. Tristan could see himself reflected in them, and he saw his own face, scared and unsure of what would happen next. And then the boy saw something in the giant's gaze, something he would look back and still marvel at, a thing which hadn't been seen in the eyes of a giantess for a hundred years.

In that moment, Tristan saw kindness.

“Oh, thou art a poor thing,” the giant girl murmured. “Let my hand rest upon thee, and find rest and healing.”

Softly, the giantess lifted her right hand, and placed her middle and index fingers on his torso, covering his chest and left. Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and winced slightly, waiting for the inevitable crushing sensation...

But it never came. Instead, Tristan felt a soft, warm feeling coursing through his whole body, slowing his heart and easing the tension in his weary limbs. He still felt fear, but it seemed muted, somehow, as a sound becomes muffled underneath the water.

He blinked a few times, and realized with a start his arm didn't hurt any more. He tentatively rolled his shoulder, and grinned in spite of himself when he felt no pain nor even soreness.

Tristan knew little of magic, but even he, a farm boy from a run-down little village, could recognize healing magic.

“T-Thank you,” he stammered up at the giant girl. She chuckled softly, and shook her head.

“There is nothing to thank, little traveler. To heal one such as thyself was of no avail. I would be honored if thou wouldst grant me the chance to be of much more use than a mere healing spell.”

Tristan frowned. “S-So..... you want to.... accompany me? For some reason? I thought all the giants hated humanity. What makes you any different? How do I know you're not just biding your time until you grab me and.... and....” He felt sick all of a sudden as he thought of some of the stories he'd heard back home. He decided to change topics.

“I've heard that your people still have cities, armies, lives outside of fighting to survive. Why would you leave all of that to come accompany.... me? A mere human?”

“Thou art no mere human, little traveler,” she said simply. “None of thy kind is meager or lesser in any way. My people have failed to recognize this, and have become too steeped in their hatred towards humanity. The violence my sisters have embraced must be put to an end, and thus I abandoned my people, wandering these lands in search of those who need aid. I will admit, none have accepted my help yet” – a pink tinge came over her face and her steady voice faltered for a moment – “but I believe I will one day encounter one who seeks to heal instead of harm, to understand instead of to hate, and to live instead of merely surviving.” Here the giant girl's eyes shone as she looked down at him. “I believe thee to be the very human I have been seeking. What other human would dare cross the Misted Vales alone, with little more than a sack of provisions and a weapon? Is the quest thou hast embarked upon not one of honor, of valor, of restoration?”

Tristan blinked. The giantess' archaic manner of speech was difficult to understand, but she sounded as though she'd read him quite thoroughly. There was an awkward silence as Tristan tried to figure out what to say next.

Just as he opened his mouth, the giant girl spoke again, a slight pleading edge in her voice.

“I can offer thee wisdom, guidance, protection, whatever you wish. Whatever thee may require, thou need only ask and I shall oblige. I understand that one of my size may appear frightening to one such as thyself, and I can only respond by saying that I shall never leave thy side. No matter what may come between us, I implore thee, little one, let me serve as thy companion, as thy.... as thy maiden.”

Tristan felt the air disappear from his lungs.

Among his people, there was a tradition that no hero should walk alone. Therefore, every knight, upon receiving a quest was assigned a maiden; a woman, usually skilled in magic, who acted as his counterpart, guiding him, protecting him, and comforting him. The role of maiden was an honored role, and the knight was to treat his maiden with respect and honor her for her sacrifice. Maidens were just as venerated as their male counterparts, and many a maiden and knight married after questing together. But the role of maiden was a serious one. It required total devotion on both parts, on pain of death. For a maiden to accept a knight, and vice versa, was a fundamental binding of two souls' fates.

The tradition of knights and maidens had fallen out of practice in recent times, as there simply weren't enough people left to serve such a serious role in this age. That a giantess knew what a maiden was, and that she was offering to serve as his maiden... it was unheard of, to say the least.

“You....” Tristan tried to collect his thoughts. He'd heard the old stories about maidens and knights, and he used to wonder to himself if he'd ever be worthy enough to have a maiden pledge herself to him. He remembered the sadness that had come with realizing that the age of chivalry, of companionship, had ended long before he was even born. It was one of the reasons he'd taken on this quest alone – to try to restore his home, and become someone a maiden would be honored to pledge herself to.

And now here he was, laying in the open palm of a girl like none he'd ever met before, claiming that there would be no greater honor than to serve as his maiden.

“I'm going to the Godbearing Mountain,” he said quietly. “At the edge of the world, to fetch water from the ancient spring and put an end to this blight once and for all. I don't know if it exists, nor if it can even be done. But I figured if you would.... if you would really sacrifice this much, you may as well know what you're getting into.”

The giantess was silent, as though in deep thought. Then she nodded, and asked, “What is thy name, brave little traveler?”

He told her.

She nodded again. “Hold on tight, Tristan.”

Slowly, gently, she lowered him to the ground, and tipped her hand just enough for him to slide off her palm and into the grey-colored grass.

The giantess was still for a second, watching him carefully, then she stood to her full height. Tristan had to crane her neck to even look up at her face, but he could see her amber-colored eyes, looking down at him with such warmth it made him feel strangely giddy.

“I, Lyra,” she said in a clear voice, setting her right hand over her heart, “do pledge myself to aid thee, Tristan, upon thy quest to reach the Godbearing Mountain in the far north, and find a cure to the blight that ravages our lands. I swear to offer guidance, strength, protection, and whatever else thou may require of me, till our quest is done.”

Tristan nodded, and hastily put his right hand over his own heart. “Um.... I, T-Tristan, pledge to complete this quest to the best of my abilities, and to respect and honor my companion, L-Lyra. I swear to act with courage and wisdom, and to persevere and trust in the advice of my companion.... m-my maiden.”

He took an unconscious step back as the giant girl knelt suddenly, then felt ashamed when he realized she was offering him her hand once more.

“Let us seal our bond, little traveler. Take mine hand, as is the custom of your people.”

Tristan forced himself to step forward, slowly raising his hand. He paused as he looked up at the giant girl looming over him. Did he really trust her? A giantess? The supposed enemy of his people, claiming that she wished to join his cause for healing and restoration, and serve as his most loyal companion the whole way?

I implore thee to trust me, she had said, with a look in her eyes that Tristan knew on some deep, instinctive level, meant that he had to do just that. He would do what no other human had dared to do in a hundred years, and learn to trust.

“Let's begin,” he said, placing his hand, so small in comparison, atop her index fingertip. The giant girl smiled, a soft, happy expression, almost cute for one so big. Tristan felt a rush of warmth in his heart, and somehow he understood that history was being made, here and now, at this very moment, between nothing but a farmer boy with foolish dreams and a girl who believed in them.

“May the sun, moon, and stars guide us,” Lyra said softly. “Let us begin.”

CLOUDPOSTING!

People are like “it’s so beautiful no clouds at all” it could use a little clouds if I had to be honest.

I have roughly 20 hours, plenty of time to announce that I am making this specific blog more for the unhinged ramblings and unassisted thoughts. I'm gonna make a separate blog for stories and writer stuff later.

Six signs you're making a poor decision:

i. you avoid input from people you respect

ii. you don't consult the Word of God

iii. you don't pray for God's leading

iv. it doesn't build you spiritually

v. it undermines your integrity

vi. it leads you to temptation