In this world, the dead did not always rest peacefully. Necromancers, hungry for power, would reanimate corpses to create abominations like zombies, skeletons, and ghouls, mere tools for their dark purposes. For the frost giants, to see their fallen kin twisted into such grotesque forms was a profound insult, a desecration beyond forgiveness.
Though giants made for formidable undead, their physical power alone deterred most necromancers from targeting their tribes. Yet here they were, dealing with these monstrosities all the same.
Now, as they circled the fire, their conversations grew more urgent, more heated. Suspicion spread like wildfire, with the giants throwing out theories about foreign necromancers hiding in nearby villages, or whether some unseen force watched them from the shadows.
Suddenly, the low, raspy voice of Turbatu, the ancient shaman, cut through the noise. "No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "These are not the works of necromancers. This is not something crafted by mortal hands."
The crowd fell silent as the old shaman, frail with age, leaned heavily on his staff. His long, white beard and bushy eyebrows, almost indistinguishable from one another, trembled with each labored breath. Though weak, Turbatu was revered, for he was not only the former village chief but also the one responsible for all sacred ceremonies; funerals, weddings, and rites of passage. His word held weight.
Bastian's heart skipped a beat at the shaman's words. "Not the undead? Then what in the world are they?"
"Monsters born of dark magic," one of the younger giants growled, his eyes flashing with anger. "Wizards and their foul creations."
Bastian remained quiet, sitting on the outskirts of the gathering. He gazed into the fire, its flickering light casting shadows on his sharp features. The tension in the room was palpable, the giants' fury like a storm ready to break. Yet his mind was far away, lost in thought.
The world was vast, home to four great races: dwarves, elves, dragons, and giants. The giants and dwarves had long been known for their deep connection to nature and the art of forging, while the elves and dragons controlled the majority of the magical knowledge that flowed through the lands. And in this turbulent era, where the boundaries between magic and monstrosity blurred, it seemed that none of them were safe from the darkness stirring in the world's farthest reaches.
As the fire continued to burn brightly, Bastian knew that whatever force had caused these mutations, it was far more ancient and dangerous than a mere necromancer.
"It's said that the dark magic responsible for creating undead, the kind that sows hatred even among the living, was once a closely guarded secret of a particular elven clan," Turbatu's raspy voice echoed through the hall, though few seemed to pay him much mind.
The young giants in the tavern shifted in their seats, exchanging skeptical glances. Among them, the shaman's words had long lost their weight. His predictions were regarded as little more than the ramblings of a senile elder, though no one dared to voice it openly. Yet their eyes told the truth, doubt, not in the magic, but in Turbatu's ever-gloomy foresight.
The fire crackled, and a gust of wind whistled through the cracks in the cabin, but still, the old shaman pressed on. "The earth mourns, the world weeps," he murmured, leaning on his staff. "The end draws near."
This was not the first time the old shaman had predicted catastrophe. In fact, he had been making such claims for the past thirty years, so much so that even the youngest giants had grown up hearing his gloomy warnings. To them, it was more of the same, empty words repeated too often to stir real fear.
Still, out of respect for his position as the tribe's only spellcaster, Turbatu had been brought out tonight. He was the last of his kind here, the old magic clinging to him like the frost on the trees outside. But no matter how much respect they held for him, the younger giants believed this was the work of some reckless necromancer. After all, it was simpler to blame a mad wizard for such horrors than to entertain the shaman's apocalyptic visions.
"Bah, a necromancer," one of the younger warriors scoffed, his deep voice rumbling over the fire. "We'll find them and put an end to this, once and for all." His words were met with nods of agreement from the others, their expressions hardened with the resolve to defend their dead.
Yet, in the shadows at the edge of the room, Bastian sat quietly, deep in thought. He was the only one who didn't dismiss Turbatu's words so easily. The others, the hunters, saw these creatures as nothing more than reanimated corpses, soulless things driven by magic, easy targets for their strength and combat skills. To them, these "monsters" were little more than mummies, fragile and easily destroyed. But what enraged them most was seeing their ancestors among the creatures, defiled and desecrated.
The frost giants feared nothing, not even death. But this? This was different. Their families bodies, heroes, warriors, giants who had once stood as the unshakable pillars of their people, had been stolen and twisted into something grotesque. It wasn't fear that gripped the giants now, but fury.
Bastian, however, saw more than the others. In his vision, these creatures weren't just corpses brought back by some dark spell. No, there was something else, a foreign essence inside them, a disturbance in the natural order. The giants believed they were dealing with mere undead, but to Bastian, it was clear these were something far worse. They moved as if controlled by something external, as if their souls had been replaced or overridden by another force. He couldn't help but think of it as some twisted form of solnesia, a corruption that wiped away who they once were.
"This… this feels more like a natural disaster than the work of a single wizard," Bastian muttered to himself, his eyes locked on the flames. "No spellcaster, no matter how powerful, would waste their magic raising this many corpses without refining or controlling them properly."
His thoughts drifted back to old Will. He had been a soldier once, a great warrior who had served his tribe well. But Bastian had seen him die, collapsing from his wounds and the toll of time. The cause of death was clear; old age, mixed with injuries from battle. Yet, now here he was, walking again, soulless and driven by something far darker than death itself.
Bastian sighed, watching as the younger giants, the strongest of their tribe; sat around the fire, planning their next move. Each one was a formidable force in their own right, the backbone of their people, giants of strength and will. But Bastian knew that strength alone wouldn't be enough for what lay ahead. This wasn't just about fighting the dead, it was about understanding the darkness that had come to their land, a force more powerful and ancient than any wizard or necromancer.
And that thought lingered in Bastian's mind as the fire flickered, casting long shadows across the walls.
Bastian sat quietly at the farthest edge of the circle, keeping his distance from the boisterous gathering of giants. It wasn't just because he was considered a child by their standards, but also for his own safety. If he got too close, there was always a risk of being stepped on by one of the giants, especially once the drinking started. On normal days, this wasn't a problem, but tonight was different. The atmosphere was tense, the hall crowded with restless bodies.
As the conversation dragged on and giants began reaching for the wine barrels while talking, Bastian sighed inwardly. He knew that tonight's meeting wouldn't lead anywhere. The fact that they had managed to sit and talk seriously for over half an hour was, frankly, a new record.
Just then, a voice broke through his thoughts.
"Bastian?"
It was Drax, the "little" giant, though he still towered over Bastian by several feet. Drax's wide grin stretched from ear to ear, his excitement palpable.
"What is it?" Bastian asked, raising an eyebrow. Something had clearly made Drax's day.
"Grandpa says we need to tell the elves about what happened. He's sending you and me to their territory tomorrow! And, if we're lucky, we might even be able to bring back some goods!" Drax practically bounced on his heels with enthusiasm.
Bastian glanced over at the village chief, An Brodyg, who was standing across the room. His eyes were filled with a mix of hope and anxiety as he watched the two of them. The chief clearly trusted Bastian for this task, and the responsibility weighed on him, but he also saw the opportunity it presented.
Bastian gave a small smile and nodded. "Alright, I'll go."
He knew that before he had started handling these trade dealings, the frost giants had often been outwitted by the northern elves. They'd been swindled too many times, trading their precious monster furs and rare materials for cheap, low-quality goods, like diluted fruit wine. At least with Bastian along, the tribe wouldn't suffer such humiliating losses.
More than that, Bastian also saw this as a chance to earn some money himself. Trading with the elves could bring in goods that he desperately needed. His enchanted steel sword, with its flame-carved runes, was in need of repair, and the fuel for his forge was running low. Living independently had made him meticulous about preparing for the future, almost like a squirrel stockpiling for winter.
His eyes flicked over the room once more. Some of the giants were still deep in conversation, while others were reaching into the wine barrels for dried meat. It was clear now; the meeting had turned into another excuse for drinking. The seriousness of the situation had evaporated, replaced by the giants' jovial spirits and desire to drink the night away.
"Just as I thought," Bastian muttered to himself. No conclusion would be reached tonight.