by Renee "Kindrianna" Booke
There
was a time before the age of Giants was brought to a swift and brutal end; a
time where Giants and Elves lived comfortably as neighbors and trading partners.
Each month, ships carrying both their goods sailed down the sunny river of Grianmhar'isen
to the sea. The sails on those ships were like clouds of silver that glistened
and gleamed in the light of the hot sun; gliding with ease over the cerulean
roads. The Animal-Kin loved to stand upon the shores and behold the floating
treasure barges, and each sailor warmed his heart on the promise of fortune and
adventure that lie within the vessel he was sworn to.
Mirador was more a market than a town in those days,
with a busy harbor and a lonely lighthouse standing guard ‘ore a rocky shore.
The few people that did dwell upon the coast fit almost exclusively into one of
four categories: craftsmen, traders, fishmongers, or sailors. Very rarely, an
adventurer or two would sail in or wander by, but they never stayed long, and
they were never Human (at least not until well after the year 757). Mirador had
always been a stepping-stone to people like that. It was the strong locals, the
ones with salt in their veins and wind in their souls that were content to stay
and carve out a life for themselves. The greatest wizards in all the world
couldn’t do what they could, turning sweat and blood into legacy.
If Kenkilit is now considered a city of mountains, a
sturdy and unmoving stronghold carved into the earth, then Mirador would have
been her opposite. Her streets were alive and constantly changing with markets
that were never set up the same way twice. All manner of odds and ends and trinkets
born of imagination lined the harbor. Competing traders loudly called attention
to their wares, drowning out the shrill cries of the gulls above. Even in the
early morning fog, there was always someone hustling around setting up or
taking down a booth before moving onto the next job. Most of note was the
smell; always did the air smell of fish and salt, the latter of which was so
heavy that sometimes it clung to the skin.
On the
outskirts of this ramshackle fishing and trade hub was a home much larger than
the others but sparse in luxury. This was where Jagtor lived. His home was not
large because of vanity or love of coin, but because of necessity. Jagtor was a
Giant and a famous one at that. His jewel crafting skills knew no equal in all
the land, and many believe that to this day a craftsman of his caliber cannot
be found the world over. Talent, however, could not hide Jagtor’s surliness. He
was a grumpy sort, preferring a life of solitude and labor to all the merriment
of the harbor’s exciting ways. Despite his best attempts to disappear into the
background of life, he was a bit of a fixture around Mirador, and to some, a
local attraction.
In those days Giants by and large preferred the
company of their own kind. Jagtor was a fascinating exception to the rule and
was often hounded with curious, but well-meaning questions. The question he
hated the most and the one that he got asked most often was: “What’s the
weather like up there, Jagtor?” He cringed every time he heard it, always
waving it off dismissively. He would have preferred to talk about his craft or
art, or his thoughts on Giant architecture, but no, all his talent was reduced
to a single-minded obsession with his tallness.
Very rarely he’d be asked why he chose to live in
Mirador, and his reply was always the same: “Inspiration.” Jagtor believed that
if he remained with the other Giants that his works would be just like theirs,
and he was far too proud an artist to settle for mediocrity. Determined, he set
off into the world and journeyed to Mirador where things changed daily and he
would be exposed to things he might never see otherwise. You’d never know it by
his frown, but Jagtor was quite attached to Mirador and its magical sense of
wonder and freedom. When he wasn’t being pestered by curious Elves and beasts,
he was free to be his most creative. With Mirador as his muse, he could create rings
of aquamarine and sapphire that were as complex and faceted as the ocean
itself.
He worked more than ten hours a day, preferring the
early mornings and evenings where he could behold the vibrant colors of dawn
and twilight, carefully noting how each affected his view of the ocean. Each
jewel he made told a story and the subtle changes in color and how the light
might hit a single cut or blemish were all a part of that narrative. It was
only when it became too dark for him to see the intricate details of his work
did he cease for the day, wandering down to the harbor to enjoy the cool breeze
and peer out towards the horizon. He wondered about all the colors of the world
that lay beyond what he could see, and they danced like sparkling spirits upon
the edge of his consciousness. Deep in his soul, he was a wanderer, but it was
very hard for a Giant to set foot upon a ship and take off for places unknown.
A ship of such size and strength had yet to be built to his knowledge, and
perhaps never would be in his lifetime.
The disappointment didn’t trouble him too badly, for,
after all, an artist rarely has idle time to daydream if they are busy chasing
their next project or idea. Jagtor dedicated himself to his work and created
many of the prized jewels that would one day be claimed by the terrible usurper
King Velindahl and beset within his golden throne. Fate, however, always seems
to have a mind of its own. For it was not Jagtor’s destiny to labor into old
age. Something else was in store for him.
One day there came about a storm so fierce that its
rains flooded the shores and its wind ripped the trees from the soil. The drums
of thunder pounded like booming proclamations of war, and lightning shot
through the sky roaring like some kind of dragon too bright to behold, and too
frightening to watch. That day, buildings crumbled and sailors ran for cover,
many abandoning their ships in the harbor afeared for their own lives. Jagtor
did not run. The brave Giant instead waded into the water, pulling back some of
the ships that had broken free. He secured them to the harbor with rope and
anchor as best he could, once catching a broken mast in his palm that was about
to fall onto some horrified sailors. He held the timber until they escaped,
looking around in desperation for what problem might come next. It was then
that he beheld another sound through the chaos of the storm, the sound of his
own doom.
